


aim for the heart, shoot to kill

by pyladic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon Era, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-06-17 23:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15472083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: In which Fyodor Dolokhov never misses the mark, except, of course, for when he does.





	1. prologue

Dolokhov squints down the barrel of the battered flintlock pistol, trying to place his sight squarely at the center of the tree trunk about ten meters away. The wind is up, but that doesn't, or shouldn't matter, not to a marksman like him. He takes a measured breath, steadies his hands, and pulls the trigger. The bullet lands exactly where he'd placed it, but that doesn't come as a surprise. What else is it going to do?

"Why do you do that?" Denisov's voice shatters his concentration, and he scowls as he turns back to face him. Denisov looks pointedly unruffled by his glare, which should have had him scurrying away, flinging apologies left and right. Damn the man.

Denisov continues. "Why do you practice with targets? We all know you're going to make the shot." He glances around, where a few young men in infantry uniforms have been watching while pretending not to, and grins. "Are you trying to frighten the recruits?"

"No," Dolokhov says sourly. He aims his glare in their direction, feeling a vicious surge of vindictive pleasure when they scatter faster than he would have thought possible. "That's idiotic, Vaska. Why do I care about some recruits?"

"I think you like to see them run scared." Denisov says it with his usual good cheer. Not that he's surprised. He does have a knack for it.

Denisov, he thinks darkly, as he lowers his pistol and fiddles with the barrel, is one of those people who come into their knacks early. No interminable, endless waiting, while various nosy relatives kept asking prying questions, making guesses, and sighing disappointedly over his knack's failure to appear. Not like Dolokhov, who hadn't figured out his until he was sixteen. With a temperament like Denisov's, eternal good cheer had likely been the only thing it could be.

"A little fear is good for them. And practice is good for me." Just because he can't miss doesn't mean he shouldn't practice, and focus is good for the mind. Dolokhov puts the pistol away, scowling a little at the wide grin spreading across his friend's face.

"Ah, so you admit you're trying to scare them!"

"Well, of course I want to scare them. What good is a reputation like mine if I can't get a little fun out of it?" He straightens up, narrowing his eyes at Denisov. "Was there something you wanted, or have you just come here to be a distraction?" Not that he would put it past Denisov. There are times the man is nearly inescapable, and though he's one of Dolokhov's few close friends, that doesn't mean there aren't times his eternally sunny nature makes him want to scream.

Denisov laughs and reaches out to pat his shoulder, and he resists the urge to shake his hand off. Composure, he thinks. Denisov means well, and he's relatively competent. He can't afford to alienate him now.

"You're going back to Moscow for a little while. We all are." He grins widely, the expression drawing lines on his tanned face, and making his moustache quiver slightly. "What do you think, eh? Are you ready to raise a little hell? Any sweetheart back there you're dying to see?"

"Just my mother and sister." Dolokhov ducks his head. "I don't have time for any sweetheart."

Moscow. How long has it been since he's been back there? Seeing his family will be good. Perhaps he'll finally have a chance to see to it that the windows and chimney are all in working order. God knows his mother will die before she has someone come round to take a look at it, and they'll freeze in that tiny little shack.

"Where are you going to stay?" he asks abruptly, looking back up at Denisov. "You don't have any family there, do you?"

Denisov shrugs. "You know me. I'll find a place somewhere." He hesitates. "What about you? Not going back to live with them, are you?"

"No, I don't think so." They need all the room and food they can get, and as much as he wants to see them, he'll only put even more of a strain on their finances. "Maybe I'll hire a room."

He doesn't consider staying with Helene, even for a moment, or that's what he keeps telling himself. She's married, now, and her husband certainly wouldn't approve of a former (?) lover staying under his very roof. And though he and Helene get on very well, with her easy liar's smile and his unstudied, rough manners, with Helene comes her brother.

When he left last, Anatole Kuragin was the toast of Moscow, and at his most handsome and charming. He'd been a laughing, carefree young man who never failed to set Dolokhov's fingers itching to reach out and _ruin_ him. How long has it been? What has he become since then? What does he look like now?

"Dolokhov?" He's been quiet too long, evidently. Denisov prods at his shoulder, and his head snaps up. "The train will be here within the hour. You ought to get a move on and put your things together if you want to get a decent seat. It's going to be crowded."

Dolokhov shakes himself, and starts to walk briskly back towards their encampment, Denisov trailing along in his wake. "Right. Let's go." He won't think of Anatole Kuragin. It can't be that long of a reprieve from the unending war, and then he can get back to what he does best. They don't even have to see each other. Moscow is a large enough city, and he's always been good at making himself unseen.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a terribly long train ride back to Moscow. He and Denisov are stuck sitting in a car filled with loud, cursing infantrymen, and by the time they finally arrive, even Denisov's good cheer is starting to slip, or at least he'd like to think so. It's infuriating otherwise, thinking of how well he keeps his countenance.

As they pass through the countryside on their way to the city, he can make out the marks of the war, the way it's ravaged the land. Crops failed, homes burned, roads trampled to pieces, fading as they make their way towards the capitol. Does the war even exist, there? For the elite of Russia, is it real? Or is it something that only touches the fringes of society, the people who would otherwise have been nothing?

There are plenty of things he's not going to think about on the way back to Moscow. The war is one. He's spent far too long living it to spend another minute with it on his mind. He's supposed to be on leave, for Christ's sake. The other thing he's not thinking about, with less success, is Anatole Kuragin. He's not thinking of his plume of blond hair, the sharp angles of his face, or the way Anatole tilts his head to the side with a knowing smile in his direction, as if to say, _do you see this?_ as if they're the only two people in the world.

Anyway. He's not thinking about all of that. It's been years since he's seen Anatole, since he went to the war and Anatole went to France. Though he's kept up a decent correspondence with Helene, and it's not like he's a stranger to their family, there's still no guarantee he'll remember him at all. Dolokhov isn't sure what would be worse: to arrive and find Anatole not there, or to find that Anatole has completely forgotten him.

But it doesn't matter, because he's not thinking about it. Dolokhov settles in against his devilishly uncomfortable wooden seat and closes his eyes. It seems that the only way to escape his thoughts is to escape himself entirely. But to his chagrin, the sleep he manages for the remainder of the ride is troubled and uneasy, disturbed by the jolting of the train and the chatter of the other passengers.

Two hours later, he stumbles onto the platform, rumpled, bleary eyed, and feeling like hell. Denisov, damn him, looks fresh as a daisy. It's just unfair.

"I suppose I'll see you around," Denisov says, when they're on the platform with their bags slung over their shoulders, each looking for carriages to hire. In the crowd, they're proving rather difficult to find, with soldiers of all ranks fighting for the attention of the drivers. "Good luck with finding some new lodgings, eh?" He clears his throat uncomfortably, and for a moment it hits Dolokhov, how good a friend he is to put up with someone like him. Eternal good cheer has nothing to do with it.

"Maybe I'll have to speak with Helene -- Bezukhova, now, is it?" Denisov nods, and he continues. "I'm sure she'd be able to help me find something for myself." It's odd to think of Helene as a married woman, even now. Marriage doesn't seem like something that would suit her at all. Domesticity isn't her style, and from what he knows of her husband, he doubts there's any good feeling between them at all. A man like Bezukhov -- it's tragic, really, when he puts his own interest in the matter aside. Pity that's never been a priority for him.

Denisov claps his shoulder, and all his good feelings towards him vanish in an instant at the easy familiarity. Denisov is supposed to be _afraid_ of him, damn it.

But his glare does nothing to discourage him from speaking. "You know what they say about her," Denisov tells him, a conspiratorial expression on his face. "I hear she's the best liar in all of Moscow."

And the thing is, that's exactly what she wants them all to think, Dolokhov reflects. One Kuragin sibling always lies and the other can only tell the truth, but it's never the one people think.

"She's certainly formidable," he replies, forcing an uneasy smile. Suddenly, he's eager to be out of here, to find his new temporary home and not see anybody for a week at least. "I'll have to be careful with her."

"Be sure she doesn't take off your head," Denisov says with a laugh, and waves as he starts to head off through the crowd of soldiers, towards some unknown destination. "I'll see you around."

Dolokhov doesn't bother waving after him, instead turning to scan the road ahead for a carriage. He ought to go and see Helene, anyway, before he's been here too long. She'll think he doesn't want to be seen with her, and that's a dangerous road to walk down.

It's a damnably long time before he manages to get a carriage, and he climbs in with a sideways look at the driver, muttering her address and settling in against a new and equally uncomfortable seat. The carriage screeches off down the cobblestone streets, and as they ride along, he feels the nerves in the pit of his stomach swirling to new heights. What if it goes terribly? What will he do then? He can't go back to live with his family, for plenty of reasons, but what if he's left with no choice?

Before long, the driver stops in front of Helene's house, and he climbs out slowly, staring up at the place. The carriage speeds off behind him, but he's not paying it any mind. Well, then. Helene has done well for herself with this man. The house is larger than anywhere he's ever been, save the Kuragin estate, and grand as anything. He's never felt his lack of social status more in his life.

Gathering his courage, he makes his way to the front door and knocks, slinging his knapsack over one shoulder. A servant opens the door, and he has to repeat his name three times before he's admitted, which isn't exactly encouraging. It is the right house, isn't it?

But he's ushered to a parlor and told to wait there, and as he sits down on the sofa, Dolokhov can't help thinking how much differently his life could have turned out. If Sonya hadn't refused him -- But that was likely for the best. She was far too good a girl for him, and anyway, this life wouldn't suit him at all. He tries to picture himself in a coat and tails, cravat tied neatly around his throat, entertaining guests, and nearly laughs aloud at the notion.

Helene bursts into the room in a flurry of skirts, and he's standing before he recalls making the conscious decision to do so. "Fyodor!" she exclaims, and before he knows it, she's kissing his cheek with reckless enthusiasm. "Where have you been keeping yourself, you reprobate?" She pulls back to slap his arm with the flat of her hand, hard enough that it hurts a little. "You were missed!"

He can't help smiling a little at the phrasing of that. _You were missed_ , she says, but not by who, or how much. Though she can't lie (and isn't that a disappointment to her family, he thinks bitterly) that doesn't mean she doesn't find ways to obfuscate the truth. Not for the first time, he thinks that Moscow has her all wrong. Her knack isn't an ability to speak only the truth. It's her way of hiding the truth in plain sight.

Dolokhov rubs at his arm with his free hand. "I didn't realize you all noticed my absence." He glances around the parlor. There aren't any portraits of any of the family, which makes sense, considering. He pauses, spotting a violin case propped up against the wall. His heart does an odd hopping dance against his ribs. Anatole. He's here?

Helene follows his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. "Of course we did, idiot." She pauses, sizing him up. "He won't be down, I think. Today isn't a good day for him. Anna Pavlovna was spreading some kind of gossip at a salon last night, and quite sunk everyone's good opinions of him."

He tries to quell the spark of disappointment at that, though it's good, if terrifying, to know that Anatole is back in town. "That's too bad."

"Well, you know, he's quite a vain boy. Can't stand anyone to look at him when their opinions of him aren't at their highest." Helene sighs. "I keep telling him, if he'd just try and behave, he wouldn't have these problems, but why listen to me, eh?"

That sounds like Anatole all over. Vain as the Devil himself, but all the more charming for it. A terrible flaw for someone whose appearance is quite literally tied to others' opinions of him, but Anatole is a study in contradictions. What does one more matter?

"One of these days, he'll learn," Dolokhov finally says, but presses on. He can't spend all this time thinking about Anatole without getting to the point of what he really needs. "Actually, Lena, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor."

Helene gives him a terrifying look. "Go on," she drawls. "Why did I just know you weren't here only for the pleasure of my company?" She ignores his sheepish look down at the ground, and taps her heel. "Come on, now, Fyodor. Out with it."

There's something about the tone of her voice that makes it impossible to lie to her, which he doesn't care for at all. Dolokhov prides himself on his ability to deceive just about anybody, and having her walking all over that doesn't do wonders for his image. Still, he gives in. It's the easiest way out.

"I was wondering if you had any thoughts as to where I could live while I'm in Moscow," he says slowly, looking up at her with a wary expression. "Anywhere would do. I'm not picky. If it's some hovel, that's fine. I just can't stay with my family."

"Well, you'll stay here, of course." Dolokhov winces, but she continues, either not noticing the expression, or more likely, ignoring it. "We have plenty of room here, and it's not like my husband will notice one more guest hanging around the place."

"How is Pierre?" It's politeness, and a desire to stall, that makes him ask the question.

Helene sighs, and wiggles her hand back and forth. "Oh, you know. He doesn't go out much. Says it's easier not to have to see other people." She pulls a face. "At least I don't have to see him either. But that's not the point. Will you stay here, or won't you? You'd be more than welcome."

She pauses, and he's weighing up the pros and cons of living in this house when she continues, in a low, understanding voice. "Anatole's staying with me. I'm sure he'd be delighted to have you here." More evasions, he thinks dully. _She's_ sure of it, or so she says, but it's not like she's stating it as an indisputable fact. It's still got her opinion attached to it, and that's incredibly subjective.

Still, to live here, with Anatole, is a temptation he's not sure he can resist. It could be just like when they were young again, stupid teenagers with more daring than brains. Dolokhov finds himself nodding before he can convince himself not to.

Helene claps her hands together. "Wonderful. I'll have someone get your bags -- or is that all you have?" She looks askance at his single, ratty, knapsack, and Dolokhov turns a little, trying to shield it from her scrutiny. "That's fine, then. You can get settled in, and have your pick of guest rooms. Oh! And before I forget, we're seeing the opera tonight."

"I -- what?" What does that have to do with him?

"You're coming with us." Dolokhov opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to get some rebuttal to come out, but he can only manage silence. Put like that, as stern command, how can he do anything but agree?

Finally, he manages to string a coherent thought together. "Who's 'we'?" He doesn't intend to sit through an evening at the opera with just anybody, and there's a tiny, optimistic part of him that's hoping Helene won't be the only Kuragin there.

She eyes him. "Me, and you, and maybe Anatole, depending on where he's at by evening. Opinions do change rather quickly, if you didn't know."

The mere possibility of seeing him is enough to tear Dolokhov's emotions in two. On the one hand, he's absolutely terrified by the prospect of seeing him again. On the other...

Helene is his host, and it would be remiss of him to turn down an invitation from her. He has to show some gratefulness, if she's letting him stay in her home. That's what he's going to keep telling himself, and nothing else will convince him otherwise. He's not about to let the spectre of Anatole keep him from showing her due respect as his hostess. 

After all, nothing's going to happen. He'll make sure of that.


	3. Chapter 3

Settling into the Kuragin -- damn it, he's going to have to get used to calling Helene by her married name -- house is its own brand of hell. As he unpacks his duffel bag, laying out what few clothes he'd managed to salvage on the bed, Dolokhov feels out of place, far too plain and uncouth for his opulent surroundings, and ready to crawl out of his skin. Helene is perched on the edge of the mattress, chatting away about the opera they're to see tonight, who'll be there, the newest Moscow gossip, and all other manner of things he doesn't care about in the least.

He's not really listening, not until she says something to the effect of "And of course you'll have to do something about your clothes." At that, his head shoots up, and he regards her with a hunted look.

"What was that?" he asks warily.

Helene sighs. "Honestly, Fyodor, you're never listening. I said you'll need to wear something a little...nicer than what you've got on now." She gestures vaguely at him, pursing her lips into a moue of disapproval. "Not that it doesn't suit you, I suppose, but -- is that blood on your cuffs?"

Dolokhov checks his sleeves absently, not surprised to find a brown stain spattering the fabric. "I suppose it is." Unavoidable, really. It's not as if he's had a lot of time for personal vanity. "What of it?"

"You're going to have to find something better." She stands, taking him by the shoulders to conduct a more thorough inspection of him, the fading smudges of kohl around his eyes, his beard, in need of trimming, and the faint hollows in his cheeks. Dolokhov feels bare, exposed, under her gaze. He'd like nothing more than to turn tail and run. It would be a tactical retreat, he tells himself. One doesn't call it cowardice to run in order to find a stronger position.

"You can borrow something from the house," she decides, patting his cheek. "Nothing of Toto's, let's be candid with one another --" Which is frankly hilarious, because by all rights, being candid should be the only thing she's capable of. She's not like her father, incapable of telling anything but lies, and by all appearances seeming to be making the most of that.

Helene is still talking. "Maybe Ippolit will have something that will fit you, you two are about the same size."

That's the last straw. He's seen how Ippolit dresses, and he'll be damned if he's going to allow himself to be stuffed into her bookish brother's stuffy clothes. Dolokhov holds up a hand to forestall her. "I'm going to visit my mother and sister. I'll find something to wear myself." He needs to get out of this house before she manages to get him into a cravat, or worse, he spots Anatole somewhere. 

"Oh." Now it's her turn to be on guard. "How are they? Well, I hope?" Dolokhov holds in a bitter smile at the sudden caution in her voice. People just don't know what to do about his family, or at least they didn't the last time he was here. Being the first in his family to have a knack at all makes him an oddity, and them subjects of pity at best, scorn at worst.

"They're fine." Helene doesn't need any more than that. With his luck, if he tells her anything, everyone in town will know by the end of the week.

But she presses on, expression softening slightly. "And your sister? Katya, is it? How is she doing with...things?"

His temper is fraying. "Do you mean, does she still have the hunch, or is she still knackless?" Dolokhov snaps. At sixteen, it's not necessarily too late for her to have a knack manifest, though it would be rare. Still, it's not unheard of. He's living proof of that. He sighs. "She's the same." He'd protect her from scrutiny, if he could, but it's not like he's here enough for his interference to matter.

Helene nods, seemingly without a pithy retort. "You go on, then. Give them my best wishes."

As he turns towards the door, Dolokhov reflects that it's probably the best he could expect from her, given the circumstances.

***

As soon as he reaches his old family home, he feels a massive weight lift off his shoulders. Katya screams with delight when she answers the door, dragging him inside and nearly squeezing the breath out of him. His mother appears a moment later, and covers her mouth with one hand, tears welling up in her eyes.

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed them until just then, crushed between them, all three of them laughing and crying and holding on for dear life.

Dolokhov fixes the window while Katya makes tea, chattering on about life in Moscow, about the garden, and what the neighbors do when they think no one is watching, and the books she's reading. They're all very pointedly not bringing up what he does when he's not at home, or the people he's killed, and that suits him just fine. He can't bring that home with him.

After the tea is gone, his mother brings him upstairs to his old room to show him how she's kept it just the same, and it's only a good amount of quick thinking that keeps him from having to explain exactly why he's not staying with them during his leave. Helene wants him there to show him off to some officer friends of hers, he tells her. He might be in line for a promotion.

It's a lie, he knows, but a well intentioned one. He's just not sure how he's going to let them down gently a few months down the line with the pay increase and higher status don't miraculously appear.

His mother goes back downstairs after another moment or two, saying something about needing to check on the post, leaving Dolokhov alone in his old room. He approaches the cracked, dusty mirror and wipes it off with his sleeve, taking stock of himself. How is he going to clean himself up enough looking like this?

The beard is an easy enough fix. He trims it over the basin, taking care not to let the scissors slip and nick his skin. There's an old kohl pencil in the top drawer, a remnant from his last visit home, and lining his eyes with it is the work of a moment.

Clothes are another problem entirely. Dolokhov rifles through his closet, searching for anything passable, but everything he finds is either too small or hopelessly out of fashion. His frustration mounts the closer he gets to the end of the hangers. He can't very well go out looking like this. The more honest part of him knows exactly who he wants to impress, but the liar in him, the part he's always indulged, is having none of that.

Finally, at the end of the rack, covered in heavy brown paper and dust, he finds the promise of possibility. Dolokhov pulls it off the rack and lays the paper out on the floor. It's his dress uniform, he thinks, left behind for the last campaign. The dark green fabric hardly has any wear in it at all, and it must still fit. It's not as if he's grown since the last time he worn it, Dolokhov thinks.

Reluctantly, he dresses, buttoning it up with nimble fingers. He digs through the back of the closet and finds his boots, the brown leather still soft. Dolokhov smiles faintly as he pulls them on and does up the buckles. Putting on a uniform, he thinks, straightening his collar and fussing over a few last details, is a little like putting on a mask. Whatever you become when you put it on, you're not a person anymore.

He turns back to the mirror to inspect his appearance, and is almost taken aback by what he sees. He's not sure when a uniform started to suit him more than his own clothing, but he feels ... different. Not the boy from the Moscow slums anymore. He only hopes everyone else can see the difference as well.

***

Dolokhov walks into the opera and immediately feels eyes on him. Which -- it's what he wanted, or that's what he's now trying to convince himself. He does a creditable impersonation of a man in total control as he's announced, and walks through the foyer with a reasonably happy expression on his face, looking around at the decorations on the walls and ceiling as if he's aware of the attention he's drawing, but can't be bothered to care.

Luckily, Helene takes his arm halfway through the foyer, pulling him to her side. He can't help noticing she's alone, which is more than a little disappointing, but he can't ask the question he wants the answer to. He has to maintain some dignity.

Helene gives him an appraising look, taking in his new-ish clothes and neater appearance, and nods approvingly. "Who'd have thought that face was hiding under all the dirt?" she comments, raising one eyebrow. "Careful, Fyodor, you'll have all the ladies after you if you carry on like this. And some of the young men, too."

Dolokhov narrows his eyes and looks at the floor. Just because it's true doesn't mean she has to say it. Or, it does, but she could choose not to say anything at all.

She continues, thankfully pretending not to notice his unwanted emotion. "There's quite a crowd tonight. Alexei, home from the war. And Anna Pavlovna, that dreadful old rag -- what is she doing away from the society columns, do you think?" Dolokhov thinks instead that he likes this version of Helene the best, when she's not bothering to conceal her thoughts at all. When she tries, she has a downright gift for summing people up in one pithy remark.

"There's Boris and Julie -- and is that Natasha?"

Dolokhov's head shoots up at the sudden change in her tone, going from self assured and judging to almost awed in a moment. He follows her gaze across the crowded room to Marya Dmitrievna, accompanied by two young girls. The first, dark haired and smiling, he doesn't recognize. The other is Sonya Rostova.

He turns away, hoping to avoid her gaze, thoughts dragged back to their short lived engagement, but Helene is still talking. "She's engaged to Andrey Bolkonsky, I think, poor girl. It's a fine match, to be sure, but only a girl with her knack could see anything worth loving in that man." She turns back to Dolokhov, conspiratorial. "You know, apparently she can only see the good in others. I wouldn't give the whole of Russia to have that. I wouldn't want to be caught in a scam." He hardly hears a word she says, heart racing fast enough it could burst. What is Sonya doing here, in Moscow? He'd never wanted to see her again, after the way he'd been dismissed.

"The other one, Sofia, is it? What does she do, anyway?"

It's not cruelty that drives her to ask, he reminds himself. "She gives her happiness to other people, something like that," Dolokhov mutters, shuffling his feet. He risks a glance over at the little trio, alarmed to find them coming this way. The temptation to hide behind Helene is nearly insurmountable, but he manages to resist. "Quick, let's go inside, Lelya--!" he hisses.

But it's too late. Helene is already saying something suitably charming to Marya Dmitrievna, and cooing over the other girl, while he pretends to be very enthusiastically looking for something to drink. Helene will suck this girl dry in no time, he thinks, avoiding Sonya's gaze. Affection never lasts with her family. She'll move on. But there's something oddly vulnerable in her expression as she speaks to the girl, and she's hardly guarding her words at all. Maybe it will last.

Dolokhov tries to picture her settling down seriously with anyone, and has to stifle a laugh. Some people just don't do that, and he's absolutely sure that Helene is firmly in that camp. She might be married, but he'd laugh in the faces of anyone who thought she was settled.

It's only another moment before she's leading him by the arm into the opera house, to their seats in the front row. How much did she spend on these tickets? There's an extra seat open next to them, which is -- he distinctly saw Helene with three tickets in her hands, and he doubts she'd invite Pierre, so -- But the lights are going down, and no one is coming. Wherever Anatole is, he's late.

He's antsy and pensive throughout the first act, and he can hardly keep his mind on the plot at all. He's never had much patience for the opera, though he can tell Helene is practically rapt at the actors moving and singing so strangely in the lights. If Anatole were here, he'd at least have a partner in his boredom, someone to exchange silent remarks with.

Somewhere behind him, halfway through the act, Dolokhov hears a door open. A rush of cold air hits the back of his neck, and he almost shivers at it. He's not the only one who turns to look, to see who the latecomer is.

Dolokhov's heart leaps into his throat as a tall figure in white emerges from the light pouring in from the foyer. The room seems to collectively hold its breath as the newcomer makes his way down the aisle, sword and spurs jangling, head held high. The performance goes on, but the actors seem to realize the futility of trying to pull focus back to them.

Beside him, Helene's lips curve into a smile, and she raises a hand towards the figure, signaling him to come towards them. He steps out of the blinding light, and suddenly, his features become clear.

The thing Dolokhov hates most about Anatole is that you can never really look right at him without feeling like you've been stung with a searing chill. He's far too bright, and cold, to look at safely. Besides, if he's having a bad day, it's certainly not showing. And Dolokhov isn't the only one that thinks so. Across the room, Natasha Rostova is staring, the color high in her cheeks.

Anatole turns back to look at her, and flashes that charming grin of his, and says something Dolokhov can't quite make out, before continuing down the aisle towards them both. He takes his seat between them with a gusty sigh, and tosses his head back. Dolokhov's skin is crackling like he's been struck by lightning, and damn it, he can't get a word out.

"You're late," Helene says reproachfully, putting a hand on top of Anatole's. Not for the first time, Dolokhov looks away from their easy affection as if he's been scorched by it. "And you don't look like you did this morning. What on earth did you do?" Helene, at least, has the grace to pretend not to notice his discomfort. Anatole just doesn't notice, hasn't even looked at him, bastard that he is.

Anatole taps the side of his nose and turns his blinding smile on her. Helene, to her credit, is completely unaffected. Dolokhov feels that smile kick him directly in the gut, driving all the air from his lungs. This isn't fair.

"And what about that bear of a husband?" Anatole asks cheerfully, far too loudly for the middle of an opera, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. "You didn't drag him out for this tonight?"

"No." Helene, at least, makes an effort to speak more quietly. She nods towards Dolokhov. "I found better company, as you can see."

Anatole turns to him, and for one terrifying moment, he doesn't seem to recognize him. He's changed, Dolokhov knows. He's nowhere close to the bright eyed boy he'd been the last time he'd seen Anatole, before the war. His face isn't the only thing that's changed. Dolokhov's heart is racing, and if this goes on much longer, he's going to -- Something.

But then Anatole's expression clears, and he reaches over to put his hand on top of Dolokhov's with a genuine, heartstopping smile. 

"Hello, Fedya."


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the opera passes in a blur. However much focus he'd been able to spare for it before is cut in half at Anatole's sudden closeness, and the way he keeps looking back at the Rostova girl. Insipid, silly little thing, Dolokhov thinks, and isn't sure which of them he's referring to. It's ridiculous that Anatole could fall for this girl so quickly, but then, that's him all over. Handsome as sin, but with a head full of cotton stuffing.

This Rostova girl, though, she could be a problem. From the way she keeps trying to sneak glances over at them all, she's interested, and the only thing Anatole likes more than a pretty girl is a pretty girl he won't have to work that hard to chase. He's lazy that way.

Halfway through the second act, his bitter musings are cut off when Anatole shifts a little closer to him, moving his hand over to rest on top of Dolokhov's, tangling their fingers together. Dolokhov feels his breath catch painfully in his throat, and stares down at their hands, nearly joined, feeling like his heart might stop. What on earth is this supposed to mean? What does he think he's doing? It has to be part of his -- his thing, whatever it is, this ability to knock the air right out of Dolokhov's lungs. It's the only reasonable explanation for why he feels so weak-kneed and helpless at a single touch from him, and it's completely unfair.

Helene shoots him a warning glance, out of Anatole's line of sight, but Dolokhov doesn't pull his hand away. Whatever this is, he's going to let himself enjoy it a little longer. It's all he can give himself.

The opera ends, and everyone in the boxes rises to their feet as one, cheering, and clapping. Dolokhov follows suit a moment later, his applause a bit more restrained. How can he be enthusiastic about an opera he hardly remembers? But the worst of it is that as soon as the lights come up, Anatole is off like a shot towards Countess Rostova, pasting on his most charming smile. Dolokhov watches him go, something twisting uncomfortably in his gut, and glances over at Helene. He catches her looking back at him with an unreadable expression on her perfect face.

"He'll break your heart, you know," she says, and Dolokhov bites back a retort. What is he to be allowed? Not even this brief moment, where he hadn't thought of any of the things standing in his way? He knows Anatole will smash him to pieces and move on without a second thought, and he'd let him do it, if only it meant he got a moment more with him.

"I know that." Dolokhov follows him across the theater, where he's plucking a rose out of Countess Rostova's hair. He turns away, feeling like he might be ill. "But it's my heart to break."

***

Two hours later finds him at the club, with a bottle of vodka held loosely in one hand. Helene is on his arm, tossing back a shot, and Anatole is sitting across the way, talking about something. Dolokhov isn't really listening, too married to his bitterness. Natasha Rostova? What on earth is there to see in a girl like that?

Pierre had been dragged along with them, for no decent reason that he can see, aside from being Helene's husband and Anatole's personal purse bearer, or so it seemed. When they'd gotten back to the house before coming here, Anatole had made a beeline right for him, wheedling and cajoling until Pierre had lent him 50 rubles, no doubt to purchase some precious bauble for his new toy. The poor fool doesn't yet know he won't be getting that money back, Dolokhov thinks.

Anyway. Helene's new husband is off in the corner, looking baffled by his surroundings as he accepts drink after drink. Dolokhov would almost be impressed, if he didn't hate the man so much. There's something about Pierre that rubs him the wrong way, aside from the fact that Helene hates him too. At the house, he'd extended a hand to him to shake, and Helene nearly had kittens, scolding him later for his impoliteness. But at that moment, Pierre had eyed his hand like it was a cask of gunpowder about to explode, and shaken it as quickly as he could. He'd looked at Dolokhov after, eyes wide with some indiscernible emotion, and nearly beat a retreat back to his study.

Disconcerting, is what he is. And if Helene's feelings towards him are anything to go by, Dolokhov's distaste for the man is no oversight.

"You're not listening to me." Anatole's reproachful voice brings him crashing back to earth. 

Dolokhov sighs and takes a swig out of the bottle before balancing it on his knee. He raises his eyebrows. "What were you saying?" Something about Natasha, he's sure. They're perfectly suited for each other, dolts that they are.

Anatole sighs. "I'm going to elope with her!" At Dolokhov's blank look, his expression turns irritated. "Natasha, idiot. Christ, she's beautiful! Her neck, her feet --"

"Feet?" Dolokhov says dryly, relishing the increased annoyance in Anatole's eyes. "Come on, Anatole, don't be stupid. You can't marry the girl." He lowers his voice, glancing around for any listeners, but finds only the two of them and Helene. "You're already married."

Anatole waves a hand and snatches the vodka away from him. "Oh, don't be so depressing, Fedya. Who gives a damn if I'm married? They can't make me do it twice. I think I should be allowed a little fun." There are moments Dolokhov envies his ability to rewrite the world with a wave of his hand and a propensity for ignoring any fact he doesn't like. This isn't one of them. One of these days, it's going to dig him a hole he can't climb out of with persistence, and if Natasha Rostova is that hole, Dolokhov isn't sure he's at all inclined to help Anatole get back out.

He slings his arm around Helene's shoulders and takes the bottle of vodka back, ignoring Anatole's squawk of protest. There's no reason to be so upset about this, he thinks, taking a swig and raising his eyebrows at Anatole. This affair won't last long, it can't, even if Anatole is the most charming man he's ever met, and the girl can't see flaws, oh, God, he's doomed --

Helene's fingertips digging into his arm snap him out of his frenzied train of thought. "Give me that, darling," she says, and takes the bottle from him. "You've had plenty already." And that makes sense. That must be why the room is spinning, and he can hardly get out a coherent thought past the emotion choking him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pierre making his way towards them, and Helene's expression shifting from affectionate irritation to something with a tinge of fear behind her eyes. And maybe it's the vodka, but something about that reaction sets his blood boiling. Helene is fearless, formidable. Why should she be afraid of anybody? Dolokhov picks up the bottle and holds it up in a toast, watching Pierre in the periphery of his vision.

"Here's to the health of married women," he says, a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth at the way Pierre seems to jump to attention at the sound of his voice. He's listening, the bastard. "and their lovers." Then, looking Pierre straight in the face, he kicks his feet up on the table and tugs Helene in close by the waist, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She laughs and pushes at his chest, but makes no other move to stop him.

Pierre's expression clouds over, and he storms over to them, pulling Dolokhov up by his collar with one big hand. "How dare you touch her?" He sounds furious, but Dolokhov can't help noticing how careful he's being not to let their skin touch.

"You can't love her," he spits back, getting right up in his face, forcing Pierre's knuckles against his throat, and grinning savagely as his face goes pale. Pierre pulls away as if the touch has burned him, clenching his hands at his sides.

"You bully, you scoundrel! I challenge you." Pierre says the words through gritted teeth, his normally pleasant expression twisted with rage and something else, something Dolokhov doesn't care to take the time to anatomize.

"I accept." And Dolokhov isn't a particularly empathetic man. He won't pretend he's doing this simply for Helene, or even mostly for her. They're all sinners, every one of them. He's just a little more proactive about it. He'll kill Pierre right this second, and not feel a bit of remorse over it. Even if Pierre weren't as broad as he is, there's no way he could miss. He never misses, never will.

He hardly hears Anatole's protests through the cloud of fury, as he and Pierre inspect their pistols, and Denisov (conveniently at the club as well, which is too providential to be coincidence, has he been checking up on him?) goes through the rules with Pierre, new to dueling altogether. The rage cools slightly as he starts thinking through what he'll have to do, the steps until Bezukhov is lying on the floor with a bullet in him. He loads the pistol with practiced movements and turns back to Pierre and Helene, in the middle of some argument, and cuts them off.

"Let's begin." Pierre looks up, fear in his eyes, before his expression hardens enough to mask it. He waves Helene off, and she sweeps past him to stand over Dolokhov's shoulder.

"Don't do anything stupid, Fyodor," she hisses in his ear, and goes to stand next to her brother, out of harm's way. Dolokhov isn't insensible of the way Anatole is watching, eyes wide and unbearably blue, chewing nervously on his lip.

Denisov counts them off, and Pierre starts to advance. Through the cold, sharp anger flooding his system, he can hear Anatole coaching his brother-in-law, and that almost hurts more than anything else. But he grits his teeth and keeps walking forward, bracing his right hand against his left wrist to keep the pistol steady.

A shot rings out. Dolokhov barely has time to think before there's a searing impact with his shoulder, one with enough force to fling him back half a step. The bastard has actually managed to hit him, which is more of a surprise than he cares to admit. Dolokhov stumbles forward a step, raising the pistol again. Fine. He'll make sure his isn't the only pain felt here tonight.

He aims for the center of Pierre's chest, the pain of the movement making him see stars, then moves his aim slightly to the left, to his heart. The sound of the report mingles with Helene's scream of terror and fury, and Dolokhov feels some of the anger leave him. It's done. It's done.

Except that, by some divine miracle or deal with the Devil, Pierre is still standing there, completely unharmed, a befuddled expression on his face. Missed? Not possible, Dolokhov thinks, bordering on hysteria. But the proof is undeniable. Pierre is right there, now dropping his pistol on the carpeting and walking towards him, concern in his eyes.

No, no, no, he doesn't want pity from this man, or anyone -- it was a fluke, that's all! He decided to show mercy for once in his life. Even as he thinks them, he knows they're lies. Somehow, his knack has stopped working. Or maybe he never had one to begin with. He's failed his family, and how is he ever going to take care of them now?

"Take him away," Helene says, nodding towards him, her eyes filled with an indescribable sadness. Anatole comes towards him, waving Pierre off, which is both a relief and a danger. If Pierre can't be allowed to see him like this, Anatole is the last person he wants seeing his weakness, all the ways he's failed.

"Go away," Dolokhov snarls, the pistol falling from his nerveless fingers. He presses his free hand to his shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding, and makes a shaky beeline for the door. Anatole follows, damn him, the stubborn bastard. "Go away, I don't want to talk to you."

Anatole reaches out as if to take him by the arm, to help him, but he jerks back, out of reach. "Come on, Fedya, you need to go home. Let me help." 

"I don't want your help." Dolokhov takes a breath, trying to steady himself, but the fury and humiliation are far too much to keep down, and Anatole is looking at him like he's afraid one wrong word will break him, and he's not going to _break_ \--! "I don't want your help. Go home." Dolokhov knows as soon as he says it that it's a lie. He wants something from Anatole, wants him somehow to understand, to fix it for him. He just wants Anatole to stop looking at him like that, and the pain is sending him weak-kneed and dizzy. 

Anatole swallows hard, his expression achingly pained, and doesn't try to touch him again. "I'm sorry, Fedya," he says quietly, and turns to go, meeting his sister and Pierre in the street. They climb into a carriage and drive off, leaving Dolokhov alone, useless, and desolate. He's a fool for thinking Anatole would understand it, understand him. No one can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments warm the cockles of my cold, cold, heart! i read and reread and cherish them <3333


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonya.

For a week, he retreats into the room in Helene's house and barricades the door behind him, drawing the curtains tightly and huddling up in bed to feel sorry for himself. Helene knocks a few times, and once Anatole even does, but he doesn't open the door for anyone. Dolokhov hardly eats, doesn't sleep, keeping his silent vigil in the semidarkness. He stares ahead through the dark and doesn't move for days. The pain keeps him lucid, keeps him grounded to the earth, and his wound starts to heal. Once or twice, a doctor comes and prods at it, frowning at him. Dolokhov knows how he must look, dark circles beneath his dead eyes, but he can't bring himself to care.

Falling into this slump in Helene's house isn't ideal, but he's got nowhere else to go, and he can't let his mother know what's become of him. Though all of Moscow probably knows by now. He's most likely a public scandal, a fraud. What must people think of him? That he'd passed himself off for this long, only to let the cat out of the bag now? So much of his reputation hinged on this. And his family's reputation - he'd been their saving grace. What will they do now? How will he provide for them?

On the fourth day, he opens the door in the middle of the afternoon, intending to find something to eat while the house is quiet. No one to see him in this state. Dolokhov nearly stumbles over a bottle of vodka sitting in front of the door, half full.

He looks around, but there's no one around, no reasonable culprit. Helene, probably. Dolokhov crouches to pick it up, studying the label. Top shelf stuff, this. She must be feeling generous. Or sorry for him. He's not sure which is worse. Better not to spurn a gift, though. He takes it back to his room and drowns in it.

***

Four hours later, there's another knock on his door. Dolokhov rolls onto his side and peers at it through heavily lidded eyes. "What?" he calls, the word slurring on its way out his mouth. He bites his tongue. He wasn't going to answer. He'd promised himself that.

"Open up, Fyodor." There's a sharpness to her voice that sends his blood rushing through his veins. Dolokhov pulls the blanket up over his head, trying to shield himself from her. He hears her sigh through the door. "Come on. It's been days. You have to come out sometime."

"No." He buries his face in the pillow. At least the door is closed and locked. He's made sure of that.

The knob clicks open, and he groans. Damn it. This isn't fair. A moment later, Helene is dragging the covers off him despite his muffled protests and clinging to it, and removes the pillow from over his head. Dolokhov snarls and sits upright, then goes pale at the sudden pounding in his skull. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

"You look terrible." That's Helene for you. Just because she has to be honest doesn't mean she has to be kind. She sniffs, and her lips curl, disgusted. "You smell terrible, too, Fyodor. For God's sake, go and take a bath, and then I'll scold you."

He looks at her, bewildered, until it becomes obscenely clear that she's completely serious. She shoves at his arm with manicured hands, the scowl twisting her features. "Go on. Go. I've already had a bath drawn for you. You're rank."

Fine. Dolokhov stumbles towards the bathroom, where there's already a hot bath waiting for him. He considers it. It would be amusing to sit in here for an absurdly long time without getting in the water at all, just to spite her. He thinks of the expression on her face, determined and very nearly venomous, and dismisses the idea. He's got enough problems without Helene's wrath added to that laundry list.

So instead, he sinks into the water until it comes all the way up to his chin and stares up at the ceiling, letting the water rush past his ears as he leans back. The dulled sounds are oddly soothing. It's like living in a world where everything matters just a little less. His failures feel insignificant and muted. Outside, they feel like the end of the world, but perhaps things aren't as bad as that.

Dolokhov emerges from the bath thirty minutes later feeling cleaner, and oddly, better. He'd never admit it to Helene. Her ego doesn't need the boost. He dresses quickly behind the screen that stands near the door, and when he comes out and finds her still sitting on the edge of his bed, he lets out an undignified yelp of alarm.

Helene cocks an eyebrow.

"I thought you'd gone."

"This is my house. I'm allowed to be here." She looks him over carefully, like she's inspecting a particularly interesting insect specimen. Perhaps she can see the failure on him. Maybe she's always been able to. Dolokhov shifts, uncomfortable under the weight of her scrutiny.

"You don't have to let me keep staying here," he says quietly, folding his arms across his chest. "People might talk." It's bad enough she's letting an unmarried man with his reputation stay in her house, with her husband and brother, only one of whom she's probably bedded. Dolokhov knows her well enough to know it's not the husband. But if she keeps him here now, when he's even more of an oddity, an abomination, what will people say? Helene might be the queen of Moscow society, but she isn't infallible, not by a long shot. He can't be the reason she slips. 

There's silence, for long enough that his discomfort reaches new heights. Helene just keeps staring at him, with that cool, inscrutable gaze.

"I'm aware of that," she finally says, and starts towards the door. Which isn't really an answer at all. But if she isn't going to make him leave, he's going to keep staying here. Who gives a damn if it isn't the gentlemanly thing to do?

"I - wait." Dolokhov bites his lip. Pleading isn't his style, and she knows it, but he's desperate not to be left alone in here again. "How's your brother?" he finally asks, trying for a nonchalant tone. He doesn't want to talk to Anatole, not after the last conversation they'd had, but it's something to say.

"He's upstairs, writing letters to that little Rostov girl. They're dreadful. You should go up and have a look, maybe that will cheer you up." Helene turns back to face him, leaning up against the door frame. Dolokhov tries not to let his face fall visibly. He'd almost forgotten about her, and now that he's been reminded, it's just another burden to bear. His life and prospects are ruined, he's got no idea what he's going to do, and upstairs, Anatole is leading them to their collective doom.

"I think I'd rather go back to war." At least on the battlefield, there were no love affairs to be worried about.

Helene sighs. "Come on, Fyodor. It'll blow over. My brother can't keep his attention on anyone for longer than a month. Help me speed things along."

Somehow, that isn't reassuring.

"I don't want any part in this." He can't make himself even more vulnerable, not to Anatole Kuragin. Not to any of them. Dolokhov clenches his hands behind his back, letting the sting of his fingernails digging into his palms keep him grounded.

But she won't be dissuaded so easily. "Look, give it time, won't you?" Helene eyes him, eyes narrowing, scrutinizing details he's sure he'd rather she didn't see. "He'll get over it faster if you're there."

Which is just ridiculous. Anatole has never once listened to a thing he's said. If he had, he'd be much less the cad Dolokhov knows he is.

"We both know I'll only make things worse." Dolokhov scuffs at the carpet with the toe of his boot, unwilling to meet her eye. He's just going to drag things down into the mud. Better to let Anatole flail and struggle on his own. He'll come out on top. He always does.

She sighs. "Fine. Well, then, you should know, your ex-fiancee is sitting downstairs in the parlor. I tried to make her leave, but the girl is quite insistent."

"What?" Panic is his first response. Sonya can't be here. Why should she come to see him at all? After the way they'd parted ways, he'd more than expected her to curse his name to anyone who would listen. But no, she's far too kind for that. She's always been more the type to suffer in silence. "What? I - why? How long has she been here?"

Helene's expression contorts oddly, and he's sure she's holding in a laugh. "Since you got in the bath. I told her you were sick, but she still won't go." She waves a hand at him. "Go on, then. Go and say hello."

Denial comes next. Dolokhov shakes his head, heart racing. "I don't want to see her." Maybe she's just here to laugh at him, to collect gossip for her cousin. But that isn't like Sonya either. Worse, maybe she's here to rebuke him, to tell him he never meant a damned thing to her. He'd rather go back to the Caucasus. He might consider it.

She holds the door open, gesturing him into the hall. "Fyodor. Don't be stupid. The girl won't go, and she wants to see you. It wouldn't be polite to keep her waiting much longer." Before he can untangle the layers of hypocrisy there - Helene was perfectly fine making her wait, but it would be rude if he did - she's tugging him out the door and down the stairs, towards the closed parlor door.

Dolokhov balks at the doorway, flinging her hand off. "I don't want to talk to her," he hisses, trying to keep his voice low enough that it won't be heard through the door. "Why are you doing this?"

"Just get her out of my house!" In some way, he's sure Helene thinks she's being kind, forcing him back into society in some capacity. If he were kinder, he wouldn't hold it against her. But she should have known that he's a cold, unforgiving bastard. So he's going to.

She opens the door and pushes him inside, and before he can protest, it's closing behind him.

Damn her. Dolokhov clears his throat and takes stock of himself, bags under his eyes, hair uncombed, beard in need of trimming, and winces internally. He looks up, foreboding twisting his stomach into knots. He should have known this confrontation was inevitable. He was never going to be able to get away without facing Sonya one last time.

She's dressed in a pale muslin dress, hair pinned into a low knot at the back of her neck. Her fur stole hangs off the high-backed chair she's sitting in, hands folded in her lap. She looks up, and Dolokhov braces himself for the hate he's bound to see in her eyes. But instead, she just looks tired. She's too young to look so tired, he thinks. But they're all growing old before their time. Why should she be an exception?

"You changed your hair," is the first thing out of his mouth, and he could kick himself here and now for saying it. It is different, though, little tendrils of hair framing her face softly. "It suits you."

Sonya looks up at him, taking stock, and he knows exactly what she's going to see. A scar on his jaw, that even the beard can't quite conceal. The new lines around his eyes, from sun and wind and the strain of war. The new tension in his stance, and the craft and cunning in his eyes.

"You grew a beard," she finally says, and stands. "It looks terrible." 

He fidgets with his hands. "What are you doing here?" A firing squad might be preferable to seeing her again. He doesn't love her anymore, he's sure of that, but there are the memories still. Or maybe he never loved her at all. Yes, that's it. It was a fling, something to get his mind off of things. He won't think about how hurt he'd been after, how he'd taken it out on the man bound to replace him. He's not Helene. He can lie.

She holds something out, a packet of papers tied neatly with string, and looks down at them. Dolokhov stares at the top of her head, uncomprehending. "What-?"

"Your letters." Sonya's voice is firm, unyielding. She won't look at him, which hurts more than he'd anticipated. "I came to return them."

Dolokhov takes the packet and sits down heavily on the sofa. He unties the string with barely-steady hands and starts to flip through them, biting his lip at the familiar lines in his hand, tracing out endearments and compliments he barely remembers writing. It's like looking back at a portrait of himself as a young man, a body he must have inhabited but can't conceive of fitting into again.

"Why?" The sound of his voice surprises him, and he looks back up at her. "Why now?" Their engagement is long over, and she could have destroyed them just as easily and never mentioned them again. But no, he thinks, that isn't Sonya at all. For all that she's the most self-sacrificing person he knows, she's got a terribly cruel streak to her. He put that there.

"Why not?" She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and sits back down, smoothing her skirts. "I love Nikolai. You know that."

Yes, he does. Sonya loves Nikolai like she never loved him. He was a fool to think that she ever could. Suddenly, Dolokhov wants to go back to his younger self, to shake him and strike him until he realizes he was never going to be the man Sonya wants. Changing skin with Nikolai would be easier than changing himself, and he's tried that.

"He'll never have you," he says, sullen and sharp and intended to hurt, to pierce through the composure she's wearing like a shield. "You won't be enough for him or his family. As soon as you give him what he wants, he'll dump you like yesterday's fish -"

He's cut off by her hand on his chin, gripping it hard and tipping it up to make him meet her eyes. Dolokhov goes still, eyes wide.

"I did the best I could for you." Sonya's voice is cold and calm and completely remote. She might as well be looking right through him. "I want you to know that."

Dolokhov jerks back. "What?"

But she continues as if he'd never even spoken. "I tried to give you some of my happiness. I did. I thought, maybe if I married you, we could share it. But it didn't take." Her words ring out like gunfire, though the volume of her voice is still low, her tone cold. "You don't know what it did to me."

The realization hits him, and suddenly he can't breathe. Sonya tried to make him happy, and couldn't. Is that why she left?

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She clenches her hands at her sides. Like this, she looks like an avenging angel, like the ones his mother showed him in her bible, telling the shepherds where to find the infant Messiah. For the first time, Dolokhov understands why the angel told them not to fear. She's terrifying, trembling with righteous anger.

"You were normal. I wasn't." She grits her teeth. "I thought there was something wrong with me. But there wasn't. It was you. It was always you." Sonya picks up the discarded packet of letters and thrusts them at him. "I just don't think you're meant to be happy. I'm sorry."

Dolokhov takes the letters, wide-eyed, and she rushes out, the front door banging shut behind her. So that's the end of it. They don't have to have anything more to do with one another. He stands and makes for his guest room, not wanting to run into Helene again, not now, when his thoughts are swirling like this.

He lights a fire in the grate and sits by it, reading over the letters one more time, the yellowed, worn paper crackling in his fingers. How many times has Sonya read over these? They're promises of a future that will never be, not now. Perhaps she cared for him more than she thought, but it doesn't matter now.

He knows Sonya well enough to know she doesn't mean what she says, that he doesn't deserve to be happy. Not possible. She wouldn't wish that on anybody. But that doesn't mean she isn't right. He's no good man, no matter what anyone says, and losing his knack is only the end of a long line in his string of offenses. Maybe it's his punishment.

Very well, then. Dolokhov stands, bundling the letters together in his hands. Sonya is a future that will never come. If this is how he's meant to be - miserable and alone - if this is what he deserves, then who is he to fight fate?

Hands trembling, he tosses the letters into the grate and watches them catch fire, twisting in on themselves, until they're consumed to dull ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we back bitches


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this week, on "Fedya Dolokhov Ruins All His Interpersonal Relationships"

He's woken the next morning by a loud, persistent knocking on the door to his room. Dolokhov rolls over onto his stomach and mutters something vicious into the pillow, then opens one eye blearily. His head is pounding from the last of the vodka, drunk last night, and he's in no mood for this.

"What?" It's far too early for this, and if it's Helene come to gloat, or worse, force him to go out somewhere with her, he might just have to kill her. No one answers, but the knocking continues. For a brief moment, he considers rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. But the pounding has settled firmly behind his left eye, and he's not sure it would even be worth it, at this point. So Dolokhov stumbles out of bed, one hand pressed to his forehead, and pulls the door open sharply.

Anatole is there, one hand raised, and very nearly hits him in the forehead before he realizes what's happened. He yanks his hand away and folds them both neatly behind his back, swallowing hard. Dolokhov is far too annoyed to care about the faint look of terror in his eyes.

Dolokhov gestures helplessly, indicating the grandfather clock standing in the hallway, its hands pointing to an unspeakable hour, then the window, where the dim morning light is just starting to stream in. "Why?" he asks.

Anatole holds up his other hand, a sheet of parchment dangling idly from it, and flashes a grin, slightly strained. “I need your help, mon cher.”

He stares. Anatole needs his help. Whatever madcap scheme he’s about to be dragged into, it’s got to be better than laying around here, miserable.

"What do you want?"

At least he has the good grace to pretend to look sheepish. Anatole flicks his wrist, making the sheet of paper wiggle between his fingers. "I'm trying to write a letter to Countess Rostova."

Dolokhov tries to restrain his laughter in response. Anatole's letters (infrequent as they were, before they dropped off entirely) were scribbled, haphazard things, the sentences trailing off into abandonment before they'd gotten halfway to the point. He can't imagine receiving a love letter from him that would encourage a continuation of the affair.

"Yes, well, you needn't look so happy about it," Anatole snaps. He sighs, and his expression shifts, wheedling and plaintive. "Fedya, mon cher, I don't suppose I could impose on you to help me write it?"

He's half tempted to close the door in his face and go back to bed. Being reminded of Anatole's latest fling is bad enough, but to be pulled into it? He can't imagine anything he'd enjoy less. Anatole has to know it'll end badly. Or perhaps he's just that oblivious. Yes, of course he is. When was the last time Anatole didn't get out of trouble unscathed?

This time, he might not be so lucky. Dolokhov knows the Rostovs, more than him, anyway. If word gets out - and it will, Anatole isn't nearly clever enough to conceal his intentions or the marriage that stands in his way - there'll be hell to pay. Someone has to keep Anatole from losing limbs.

"Fine," he sighs, and tries to ignore the stuttering of his heart at the way Anatole's face lights up. For all that he tries to be cool and collected, he's not much more than a giddy boy at his core, with exactly the same understanding of the world as a child. And besides, he'll send love letters whether Fedya helps him or not. This is just one way he can perhaps be useful.

Dolokhov follows in his wake as he heads towards the parlor. He stops in the doorway, though Anatole continues on, chattering away about nothing in particular. Pierre is there on the sofa, peering through his spectacles at some book, some treatise no doubt. He looks up, and his eyes narrow at the sight of Dolokhov. Pointedly, he reaches over and picks up a pair of leather gloves and pulls them on, covering his enormous hands.

Fine. Pierre doesn't want to be touched? He has no desire to make physical contact with Pierre, now or ever.

Anatole beckons him forward, and Dolokhov has no choice but to follow him towards the desk, keeping Pierre in the corner of his vision. Pierre huffs and turns the page of his book, pushing his spectacles up. Dolokhov takes his place by Anatole's shoulder at the desk, but Anatole just looks up at him expectantly. Right. He sits down at the chair and dips the pen into the inkwell. At least the bullet wound isn't on his dominant side. At least he's been spared that much. 

"How do you want me to start?"

Anatole makes a helpless, vague gesture at the paper. "I don't know. I'm hopeless at this sort of thing, you know that."

If God were listening, Dolokhov might be moved towards prayer that at least this would be over soon. He sighs and starts to write, mindless, trite phrases, anything he can think of that sounds like Anatole. Christ. Why is Anatole making him do this in the first place? To date, it might be the cruelest favor he's ever asked of him. And poor Helene can’t be very happy about this, either, not with the way she’d been looking at Natasha at the opera. Either she’s resigned herself to her fate, or she’s banking on this affair’s failure.

"I don't know if I'm going to be any improvement," he mutters, dipping the nib of the pen back into the inkwell. He might finish this letter, but that’s no guarantee it’s going to be any good, not if he can’t swallow this inexplicable fury rising in his throat with every word he writes. 

“Oh, I’m sure you will be. You’re so good with words.” Anatole leans over him, his hand resting on Dolokhov’s shoulder, and Dolokhov has to fight not to tense under his hand. His pen goes still, and he stares down at the paper, refusing to turn his head, to make eye contact. “Hmm. That doesn’t sound like me at all.” He picks up the letter and studies it closer, pacing away from the desk, and Dolokhov can’t help the way his eyes follow Anatole across the room. 

“I can start again, if you’d like.”

Pierre stands up from the sofa, tucking his book under his arm, and walks out of the room. Dolokhov pushes down the flare of smug satisfaction at that, then takes out another sheet of paper and begins again.

“Tell me what you like so much about this girl, anyway. What do you want from her?” As soon as he says it, he knows it’s a mistake. He doesn’t want to know every last characteristic that Anatole finds so enthralling about this girl, what he wants to do with her. But the words are out there, and he can’t put them back. Worst of all, Anatole has already brightened and sat down on the edge of the desk, leaning closer to him. Before Dolokhov can stop him, he’s chattering away about Natasha, her hair, her eyes, her smile, and the like.

He’s beginning to think he hates this girl, for no reason he can see. It’s insanity, how quickly Anatole seems to have lost his wits over her. Dolokhov taps the nib of the pen against the desk and pretends to listen. If he had any sense, he’d never have agreed to this. If he recovered his sense now, he could still sabotage this letter, and ruin the whole damned affair before it could gain any more momentum. But then he looks up at Anatole, wide eyed and smiling, gesturing wildly, and he loses the capacity for rational thought at all. 

Somehow, he manages to write something, though he hardly remembers what, and Anatole reads through it and gives him a wide, searing smile, and it feels like he’s been shot all over again, warmth spreading through his chest, pleasant and comforting.

Stupid. It’s stupid. Dolokhov stares down at his hands as Anatole folds it up and puts it into an envelope. He can’t be thinking like this. He can’t afford to think foolishly. This affair is going to happen whether he helps Anatole with it or not, and it’s going to go down in flames. It’s inevitable. 

Anatole is saying something, and he’s missed it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Dolokhov looks up, narrowing his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

He rolls his eyes and dusts off his clothes. “I said, Lena told me Sonya Rostova was here the other day. That she wanted to visit you.” Anatole leans his hip against the edge of the desk, expression gleefully conspiratorial. His hand covers Dolokhov’s, and for a moment, he can only stare at the desk, face going damnably red. Dolokhov isn’t sure of much, but he’s positive he doesn’t like where this is going. “Will the old romance be rekindled, eh? Is our hunter returning to old stomping grounds?”

Suddenly, the room is far too warm. If he could summon up anything other than a deep, abiding dread, he might let loose a desperate, hysterical laugh. That’s not going to happen, for more reasons than he’d ever care to name. First and foremost, Sonya hates him now, doesn’t she? Sonya doesn’t think he deserves to be happy, and honestly, he’s beginning to agree with her. God wouldn’t keep punishing him like this, like Anatole seems to actually care, like his easy smiles and the hand so casually placed on top of his if he was meant to be happy. This is a temptation, a test, and he doesn’t intend to fail. His family’s reputation is riding on him, and he can’t let them down any more than he already has.

He moves his hand out from underneath Anatole’s and sets it back in his lap, refusing to make eye contact. “I think I’ll go back to my room, if that’s all you wanted,” he says, and rises. Anatole takes a step backwards, then steps forward again. There’s a strange determination on his face, one Dolokhov isn’t used to seeing there.

“Come outside with me,” Anatole says, holding out his hand, that look still on his face. “I want to post that letter.” He seems suddenly unsure, more vulnerable. Like he’s expecting Dolokhov to say no, to brush him off like an irritating insect. It’s not a completely incorrect instinct. Before, he probably would have done just that, and not thought twice about it. But that was before this something between them, something he’s a little afraid of.

Dolokhov sighs. “Fine. Alright.” How is he supposed to say no?

Anatole, damn him, brightens up considerably at his agreement. “Good! Go put on some clothes, you look terrible.” He pushes Fedya back down the hall towards his room, and before he can protest or even sputter, the door to his room is closing behind him, and he’s alone again.

It’s incredibly tempting to fall back into bed and let Anatole send his letter by himself. On any other day, he might give into the temptation. But despite himself, Dolokhov finds himself putting on clean clothes and even combing his hair before going back out into the hall with his coat slung across his shoulders.

Anatole looks him up and down and gives an approving nod. “Now you look like yourself again,” he says, and starts towards the front door, hardly waiting long enough to let Dolokhov keep up. He has to take much faster steps to match Anatole’s pace, damn him.

“Why do you need my help to post a letter, anyway?” he grumbles. “Surely you can walk to the end of the street by yourself. Or do you need me to hold your hand, so you don’t get lost?”

Anatole laughs, and the sound goes straight to his chest. “No, idiot. But if you stay in that room of yours much longer, you’re going to start molding. A little fresh air will be good for you.”

It’s not like Anatole to care. But then, that was a long time ago, evidently. Dolokhov looks down at his shoes, squinting at the sunlight. Maybe it’s been a little longer than he’d thought since he’s been out of the house.

It’s a pleasant day, in any case, unseasonably warm for Moscow at this time of year. He almost doesn’t need the coat, but still, it’s a comfort. He feels a bit more like himself, dressed and walking down the street, Anatole chattering away about nothing in particular. Maybe things won’t be so bad. 

But as they walk, he starts to feel eyes on his back, watching his every movement. He hears an odd titter from two girls they pass, and shoves his hands into his pockets, lowering his head. Anatole doesn’t seem to notice a thing, though, so he can hardly say anything about it. He’s had worse. If a few stares is the worst this is going to get, he can bear that easily.

Finally, they reach the end of the street, and Anatole drops his letter into the postal box. Maybe now they can go back, and he can get back to feeling sorry for himself. But Anatole’s head shoots up, and he starts waving his arms, signaling to someone Dolokhov can’t pick out from the crowd of passersby. “Khvostikov!” he calls, with a childish smile. 

Christ. Now he sees him. Khvostikov, a massive, imposing, brute of a man, stands head and shoulders above the others on the street. But despite Anatole’s calling for him – and really, people are starting to look at them even more – Khvostikov doesn’t make eye contact. Thank heaven for small mercies. After all the times he’s cheated the man at cards, he’s not sure he wants a chat on the street right now. He’s sure he hasn’t been found out, not this time, but it’s best not to take chances.

But Khvostikov is coming their way, eyes on the ground. Anatole beckons him forward, but Dolokhov can’t push down the feeling of dread building. From the look on his face, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near this man.

Khvostikov stops in front of them – in front of him, really – ignoring Anatole’s greeting. The muscles in his throat work, and then he’s spitting on Dolokhov’s cheek.

Shock is his first reaction. Did that really just happen? Was he just spat on by Khvostikov, of all people, a retired civil servant?

“What in God’s name?” Anatole’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. He sounds angry, but it registers only dimly. “What is going on?”

Mechanically, dangerously calm, Dolokhov pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his cheek clean. “Anatole, don’t.” Evidently, odd looks aren’t the worst he’s to expect. “Go home.” 

Khvostikov laughs, the sound of it ugly and harsh. “That’s right, Prince. Go on home. I’m sure your family wouldn’t approve of you spending your time with a cur like this.” He kicks out with one foot, trying to trip him up, but Dolokhov just steps to the side. Composure. He can’t give this man the satisfaction of knowing he’s having any effect beyond irritation.

Anatole stiffens, and Dolokhov restrains a sigh, and a string of curses. Christ. Here they go. Anatole isn’t going to just let this go. He hardly pays attention to the words of the argument, brief and terse as it is, too busy staring at his shoes. But then Khvostikov reaches out to shove Anatole, and Anatole throws a clumsy punch, and suddenly Dolokhov has his hands full trying to keep Anatole from getting thrashed to a pulp. They’re both screaming insults at each other, and he’s aware enough to catch some the ones thrown at him – cursed, devil spawn, the like – but he doesn’t have time to register them all. And of course, it stings, but he can bear the pain. He has to bear it.

Anatole is flailing and screaming back, his face reddening, and Dolokhov is beginning to think he might actually stand a chance, if it came to a fight. He’s clawing Dolokhov’s arm, trying to get loose, but Dolokhov’s grip is like iron.

“Stop it,” he snaps, squeezing him by the shoulder, as Khvostikov retreats back down the street, shouting taunts back at them. Dolokhov ignores him, and squeezes Anatole again, trying to get him to be quiet. “Quit caterwauling, will you? You’re giving me a headache.”

Anatole rips himself free, straightens his jacket. "How can you be so calm?" The color is high in his cheeks, his eyes blazing. "How can you just stand there and let people say that about you?" He rakes a hand through his hair frustratedly. Something is bubbling up in Dolokhov's stomach, climbing up his throat faster than he can stop it. "Why don't you say something, damn you?"

It leaps out of his mouth before he can swallow it. "Because there's nothing to say," Dolokhov says through gritted teeth, and Anatole goes white. "You heard what they're saying to my face. Imagine what they're saying behind closed doors."

"Fedya, I didn't - that's not what I meant, I just - I don't understand why you let them walk all over you. Why don't you go out and prove them wrong?" His expression is stricken, desperate, the look of a man trying to keep himself out of the line of fire.

Something ugly and hateful unspools in his gut, and he's struck with the desire to reach out and shake Anatole by the shoulders, to make him _see_. "Because I'm not you, alright? Not everybody can be you. We can't all rewrite the rules just because we don't feel like following them."

Anatole gapes at him. For someone who always has, if not the right thing, then something to say, it's oddly satisfying to see him finally come up short.

Somewhere deep down, Dolokhov feels the sensation of something splintering between them. He can't think of anything to say either, and the blankness of it terrifies him. Pulling his coat closer around himself and hunching his shoulders, he turns and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow another chapter? in less than a month?? the procrastination gods must have blessed me today
> 
> as always, i read your comments over and over and cherish and hold them close to my heart! (some of yall have made me cry, ngl)


	7. Chapter 7

Helene would never go to the trouble of sending him away. He’s certain of that. But Dolokhov has burned all his bridges here, that’s for sure. Why should he stay, when all he’s going to do is bring more scandal down on them? Helene and Anatole have been more than kind in letting him stay here for so long, but how long does he have before Pierre decides to make him leave, before their father comes down here asking why they’re letting a man like him stay in their house?

Better to leave before he’s forced out. Anatole has been avoiding him since their fight, and Dolokhov is beginning to think he’s finally crossed a line he can’t step back over. 

He waits until nightfall. Better to slip out under cover of darkness, to leave without causing a fuss. They’ll find out in the morning that he’s gone, if they notice at all. Dolokhov scrawls a quick note explaining, and leaves it on the table, and slips out and down the hallway.

Where is he going to go? Not back to his mother, that’s for certain. What would be scandal for the Kuragins would be guaranteed social ruin for her: a stained son. Denisov, then. He’ll go to Denisov, beg mercy, as much as his pride will allow, and stay there until he can catch another train back to the front. The extra wages will be useful, if the army will have him back at all.

Maybe Denisov won’t have him either. Maybe he’ll be forced onto the street, to scratch a living out however he can, his mother and sister with him, his promise to take care of them broken, shattered – No. He can’t think of that. If he thinks of that, he won’t make it out the door at all, he’ll find the nearest bottle of vodka and drink it dry, he’ll take his pistol, army-issued and polished, kept pristine, and pull the trigger, and sure, he can miss now, but it doesn’t take much aim – 

“What are you doing?”

Dolokhov rears back, his knapsack slipping off his shoulder, almost crashing to the floor before he catches it. His heart races in his chest, and he can’t breathe. Pierre looks up at him from the sofa in his office, eyes bleary, a bottle of something strong clutched in one hand. He’s still got the gloves, one neatly on his hand, the other, the hand holding the bottle, is bare. Careless.

How did he get into Pierre’s study in the first place? Why did he decide to try and leave this way? What was he planning, to climb out the window? Dolokhov shakes himself, taking a few deep breaths to try and get his composure back. This is fine. He can manage this. It’s just Pierre, for Christ’s sake. He can’t be that difficult to distract.

“Nothing,” he says, voice clipped. “Go back to your drinking, old man.”

Pierre’s bleary eyes narrow on him, his broad back slipping a little further down the sofa cushions as he tries to get a closer look. His gaze falls on the knapsack, and he does his best to sit up. “Were you trying to leave?”

For a split second, Dolokhov freezes to the spot. He’s got no way of trying to explain himself to Pierre, nor does he think he should have to. If he wants to flee Moscow under cover of darkness, that’s nobody’s business but his own, isn’t it? He shouldn’t have to stand here and defend himself to some drunkard he hardly knows. 

He hesitates a moment too long. Pierre settles himself among the cushions and props the vodka against the arm of the sofa. “Come and have a drink,” he says.

“What?” By all accounts, it makes no sense. Pierre doesn’t like him, has never liked him, and that dislike has only grown since the day Dolokhov dueled him, since the day he forced Pierre’s hand against his neck. He’d wanted to get out of here and leave these people behind, never look back, but he can’t just leave while Pierre is sitting there looking at him. He glances towards the door again, eager to be gone. But if he leaves now, Pierre will almost definitely tell Helene what he saw, and he doesn’t need that. He doesn’t need Helene coming after him, asking questions he doesn’t want to answer.

Dolokhov sighs. There’s really no other answer he can give. “Fine.” He sets the knapsack down and sits down on the chair across from him, holding out his hand. “Give me a glass.”

Pierre obliges, and fills it right to the brim. All Dolokhov can think is that maybe he isn’t so bad after all. He drinks it down with a grimace. It’s been a while since he’s eaten, or slept, so maybe this will hit a little too hard, but that’s fine. Maybe it’ll make some of the pain go away.

Meanwhile, Pierre rattles on about something or other – Dolokhov isn’t really listening as he fills and refills the glass mechanically, but it’s something about Napoleon, and the Kabal, and possibly that Napoleon is the Devil? This might as well happen to him tonight. What else was he really expecting? Things don’t go well for him. Not anymore, and certainly not when Pierre is involved.

He leans back against the armchair and considers Pierre. He’s rich, certainly. Vassily Kuragin’s machinations had made sure of that. Highly placed, too. Again, Vassily’s doing. As far as Dolokhov is aware, he’s had a hand in every success Pierre has had in life, and Pierre is either too stupid to see it, or he knows and doesn’t care. Maybe he considers it a kindness.

He doesn’t want to like Pierre. They’ve been in close proximity for years now, and yet Dolokhov still doesn’t feel like he knows the man at all. All he can see is Helene’s blinding hatred for him, or rather, her complete indifference. 

It’s just strange. For all that he can see, these days, Pierre is the only one treating him exactly as he did before. He’s giving him odd looks, but then, he always did that. At least his dislike is exactly the same as before. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“Why the gloves?” he asks, for lack of anything better to say, starting to tire of listening to endless talk about Napoleon.

Pierre’s unfocused gaze goes even hazier, and he refills his glass with clumsy fingers, spilling a drop on the pristine fabric. He mutters a curse under his breath and wipes the glove off on the cushion. “Why?”

“Yes. Why? I’d like to know.” Dolokhov thinks back to the moments leading up to the duel, of Pierre’s knuckles grazing his skin, the way he’d recoiled from him as if his touch was poison. He knows next to nothing of Pierre’s knack, except that it has something to do with the gloves. It’s stopped being fashionable for years, Helene has told him, and Pierre isn’t the type to care about fashion at all, but still, he persists in wearing them. 

“So I don’t have to touch anyone.” Pierre’s eyes narrow slightly on him. Dolokhov resists the urge to tense. He says it like it should be perfectly obvious, but for the life of him Dolokhov can’t think why. “My wife says that you’re not a stupid man.”

It’s apropos of nothing, but then, Pierre has had a considerable amount more vodka than he. From the looks of things, he’d drained a third of the bottle before Dolokhov had even gotten here. Dolokhov shrugs. “Helene says a lot of things.” All of them true, in their way. 

Something in Pierre’s expression shifts. “I suppose there had to be one person who didn’t know about it,” he mutters, and sighs. “When I touch people, I feel their pain. All of it.”

And he made Pierre touch him. He hadn’t known, at the time, but he’s not sure that if he had known, he would have done any different. In the worst of his fits of temper, and even in everyday life, Dolokhov is cruel and he knows it. Something about going off to war for so long, about destroying life with impunity, seems to have killed whatever kindness he ever had in the first place.

He clears his throat. Even if it’s cruel, he has to know. “And what did you feel? In the club, when you touched me.” How much did Pierre know, and when? Did he see any of this coming? He can’t afford to have any of his weaknesses laid bare, and especially not to Helene’s erstwhile husband.

There’s a long silence as Pierre looks him over, spectacles falling down his nose. “Nothing. I felt nothing.”

Dolokhov almost keeps pushing, almost accuses him of lying. But there’s no guile in Pierre at all. What does he have to gain by lying? What more can Dolokhov possibly have to lose? He’s already lost everything at Pierre’s hands, and he’s not even certain Pierre meant to do that.

Nothing. It’s terribly apt, and he’s tempted to let out the hysterical laugh building in his chest. “Me either.”

They drink in silence for another half hour at least. Dolokhov has long since lost the impetus to try and leave now. It’s getting near dawn, he tells himself. It would be impossible not to be noticed. That’s the reason he doesn’t go. He’s biding his time, waiting for the ideal opportunity.

“Why were you trying to go?” Pierre’s voice cuts off his train of thought, but this time, Dolokhov doesn’t startle. After a moment, he tenses. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have with anyone, much less Pierre. How can he expect him to understand? Why would he choose to confide in him at all?

The worst of it is that he can’t think of a single thing to say. All he can do is sit there in shocked silence. They’re not friends, he and Pierre. There’s a part of him that would have thought his leaving would be ideal for Pierre.

“Did my wife get tired of you?” There’s a very real sense of hurt to the question, one that surprises Dolokhov a little. For a moment, he feels a sting of sympathy for Pierre. From all that he’s heard, Pierre had presumably gotten married wanting some kind of companionship, if not love, and instead he’d found himself with a wife whose desires are directed everywhere but him, to Dolokhov himself and Natasha and anyone who’d give her the attention she craves.

Eventually, he’s going to have to answer the question. Dolokhov clears his throat. “No, she didn’t.” That he knows of. She might very well have. “I’m just…cursed, you know.”

Pierre refills his glass and stares into the bottom of it. “We’re all cursed.” He drains the glass. “So. Do you know what Anatole is doing? He seems…happy lately.”

It’s alarming, how Pierre keeps pinpointing all the questions he doesn’t want to answer. It’s a skill. Anatole has been avoiding him, and he knows exactly why, and he has a fairly decent idea of what he’s planning, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be involved in it. Dolokhov gives him an even look. “Do you really think he’d tell me anything?”

Thankfully Pierre seems to accept it. “I thought you were –” he starts, and makes a vague gesture with his hands that’s indicative of something Dolokhov doesn’t want to think about in too much detail. The laugh bubbles up, a harsh, jagged sound that seems to bounce off the windows. Whatever Pierre thinks they are – they’re not, and it couldn’t happen even if he wanted it, which he doesn’t, so –

“What are you two doing?” Suddenly, Helene is standing in the doorway, looking down at them with an expression somewhere between disgust and alarm. He’s never been more relieved to see her in his life. She purses her lips, and reaches down to seize Dolokhov by the arm. “Fyodor. Come with me.” Dolokhov barely catches the look Pierre shoots her, longing mixed with hatred. Helene seems to be ignoring it entirely.

She drags him into the hall, ignoring his protestations and the way he’s stumbling. Helene lets him stumble to a halt against the wall before whirling on him, face twisted with anger.

“I don’t know what you did to my brother,” she starts, voice low and dangerous, “but you need to talk to him. It’s been days. I don’t think he’s left his room.”

Dolokhov folds his arms, trying to look less drunk than he is. He scuffs the toe of his boot against the floor. His things are still in Pierre’s study, but he can get them later. As long as Helene doesn’t think to question him about them.

“He started it,” he mutters. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Look at me.” She grips his chin between her cool fingertips and forces him to make eye contact. “Do you think I care?”

Dolokhov stays quiet. This is another fight he doesn’t want to have, but he’s beginning to think that nobody particularly cares about what he wants. Helene keeps going. “You know he wants to elope with this girl, don’t you?”

He knows that. God, he hates that he knows it.

“Well?” she demands, her voice like iron. “Are you going to help, or not?”

Petulant, he meets her eyes. The vodka is burning a hole in the pit of his stomach and he wants to scream, wants to shake her and run and never look back. Instead, he hunches his shoulders and asks, “Why are you helping him, anyway?” His voice comes out sullen, but he can’t regret that now. “I know you like this girl.”

It’s obvious. It’s in every look she gives Natasha. Helene might not be able to lie, but she used to be so much better at concealing her feelings. 

She stays quiet for a long moment, and that’s what clinches it for him. If she could deny it, she would. Her silence speaks for her, and he’s not sure she’s going to like the tale it’s telling. 

“Because it’s not going to last, you stupid bastard.” It’s not playful anymore. Her expression is tight, her voice venomous. He’s definitely hit a nerve, and Dolokhov finds himself immediately wishing he could take his words back. Helene keeps going, interminable, poking her finger into the flesh below his collarbone. It hurts, and she means it to. “You and I know Anatole better than anyone, and even with his knack, and our help, this affair won’t last.”

“Then why try at all?” If it’s doomed to fail, and he’s inclined to believe that it is, why put themselves in this position? Why would Helene put herself through that pain?

She meets his eyes, some of the fury draining from them. “Even Anatole can’t hide his secrets forever. You know that.” She pauses, scanning his face. “If you care about him, even a little, you’ll help me keep this from bringing him down.”

And put like that – he doesn’t care, he can’t – but somehow he can’t say no. Dolokhov lets out a breath and straightens up a little. “Fine. Let’s plan an elopement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been haunting me for nearly two months. argh. maybe now that it's gone i can be free.
> 
> comments and kudos greatly appreciated! help a sad struggling writer make it thru finals szn :'(


	8. Chapter 8

Anatole invites that snippy little countess to his family’s costume tournament, which Dolokhov has such incredibly mixed feelings about that he spends most of the evening off to the side of the ballroom, stubbornly dressed in his military uniform and nothing else. Let the rest of Moscow make fools of themselves. He’s got enough riding on his good standing that he can’t afford any potential slips. 

As far as he knows, Anatole hasn’t asked the girl to elope with him properly, or at all. He’s planning on it, certainly, but for now, he seems perfectly content to twirl her across the ballroom while she watches him with wide, frightened eyes. He’s dressed in blinding white suit, every button polished until it gleams, a cat’s masked perched on his head, hiding his features. Every line of the suit is sharp and crisp, tracing his limbs as if it was painstakingly tailored to his exact measurements, possibly by a team of three or more tailors.

It’s a stupid costume.

In his arms, Countess Rostova appears to be a dove, and he allows himself to enjoy just how on the nose it is for a moment. They couldn’t have arranged it better if they’d planned it – and maybe they had. Certainly Anatole hadn’t gone to the trouble to coordinate his costume with anybody else.

Helene is beside him, resplendent in a dark green gown that matches his uniform. Her mask is feathered and pushed up to rest on top of her hair. Her features are drawn into stark lines as she watches the two of them dance together. Her eyes are sharp and flinty, but there’s a layer of hurt around her mouth that he can’t ignore.

“Regretting letting him take the first crack at her?” As much as he doesn’t want to hurt her, not really, he can’t help how harshly his voice comes out. Dolokhov folds his hands behind his back, digging his fingernails into his palms. That way, he thinks, no one will have to see. He’ll look exactly the part, and this twisting in his stomach will be his secret and his alone.

She turns her sharp gaze on him. “That’s not very clever of you, Fyodor.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe he shouldn’t be spending the time inspecting her motives too closely, when he hasn’t even begun to unpack his own.

But before he can think too much about that, his attention is caught by a door opening. Across the room, Khvostikov stalks in like a hungry animal, making his way directly towards Anatole and the Countess. Like Dolokhov, he’s dressed in his uniform, only his is dirty and stained, a few buttons hanging loose as his muddy boots thud across the highly polished floors.

Helene turns back to him. “We didn’t invite that fellow,” she says, sounding faintly disgusted. Dolokhov is already on the move through the crowd, trying to make his way around the dancing couples. He sees Khvostikov grab Anatole’s arm, and moves faster, but the couples are stopping to stare, and he’d reach for his pistol if he had it, but Helene had forbidden it, and if he has to rip Khvostikov limb from limb with his bare hands he’ll do it in a heartbeat.

Helene is beside him, tossing apologies over her shoulder as she goes with a practiced ease. She smiles, charming and lovely, and if he were better disposed to appreciate his finesse –

Whatever Khvostikov is saying, he can’t hear it, but something in how Anatole’s holding himself shifts. He seems to crunch into himself, hiding his face, and pulls away, heading towards the rest of the house with alarming speed. Dolokhov doesn’t catch his gaze, or see what’s happened, but something must have changed. What did Khvostikov say to him? They haven’t spoken in days, but he can read Anatole like no one else, can see the fear and shame in the tight lines of his shoulders, the way his hands clench.

Countess Rostova stares after him. Her mask slips down the edge of her nose, and he registers only faintly the hurt in her eyes. Dolokhov steps up to Khvostikov, Helene’s vise-grip on his arm the only thing keeping him from ripping his throat open.

“I think you should go,” he manages to get out through gritted teeth.

Khvostikov laughs, harsh and too loud for the confined space. People are starting to stare, and Helene is trying to get them talking again, laughing like nothing is wrong, but it’s not going to be enough if this man keeps pushing. Dolokhov takes a step forward. Countess Rostova is with Helene, he thinks. She’ll be fine.

“Get out of here.” His voice is low and dangerous. Dolokhov looks up at him with narrowed eyes, jaw set. “Or I’ll set you on a post outside and have my target practice on your hide.”

Khvostikov looks down at him, amused. “How do you know you won’t miss?”

Cold fury flares up in his gut. As if it isn’t enough that this man has to walk in uninvited and make Anatole weak, make him vulnerable to scrutiny, now he wants to pick a fight, to shame Dolokhov too?

He forces himself to release the tension from his shoulders. Everything is fine. He has to keep up appearances, for Helene and Anatole’s sake, if nothing else. Dolokhov moves in close, close enough that he can speak into Khvostikov’s ear, low, pleasant, and utterly cold.

“Just because I can miss doesn’t mean that I will,” he croons. “I didn’t spend all that time practicing for nothing.”

Khvostikov jerks back, suddenly gone pale, and gives him a curt bow. Perhaps he’s just now realizing what kind of place he’s walked into. Though the Kuragin home is all ornament, gold leaf and marble floors, there’s teeth and claws around every corner.

Dolokhov smiles, and watches him blanch further. “You have a pleasant evening, now.”

As he scurries towards the door, Dolokhov turns back to find the room’s eyes squarely on him. He meets their gazes coolly and walks back over towards Helene and Countess Rostova, gesturing for the orchestra to keep playing with a lazy flick of his wrist. The latter is looking off towards the doorway Anatole had disappeared through, but there’s murder in Helene’s eyes.

“Was that really necessary?” Helene’s fingernails dig into his wrist, though her tone is pleasant. She jerks her chin back towards Natasha. “Now, what do you propose we do about her? Why do you always have to make such a scene of everything?”

Dolokhov shrugs. “There’s wine enough to keep her from thinking too much, isn’t there? Why don’t you show her around, show her some of your portraits or something? You must have something nice to show inconvenient guests.”

She scowls, then looks between him and Countess Rostova for a moment. She’s shifting from foot to foot nervously, looking as if she might actually be considering going after Anatole, and they can’t have that. As far as he’s aware, Helene herself is the only person he’ll permit to see him when he’s looking less than his best. Helene sighs. “Get the wine. You’re coming with.”

“What?” On instinct, Dolokhov takes two glasses off the tray of a passing servant, and hands them over to her. “I can’t do that. You don’t really mean that –”

She gives him a pitying look. “Oh, Fyodor. We’re going to need more wine than that.”

***

Helene takes them to the portrait gallery, which might perhaps be one of the few places in the house Dolokhov hasn’t been before. It’s tucked away in a corner of the house, away from prying eyes, portraits spaced at even intervals along the delicate yellow wallpaper. The candlelight casts distorted shadows in the windows opposite. Helene’s ornate mask is turned to a dark, glittering blob, and Countess Rostova appears as a pale silhouette. 

She and Countess Rostova walk ahead, arm in arm, and Dolokhov is absolutely certain Helene notices the way the Countess is leaning just a little too heavily on her arm. If he notices it, she surely must. But she’s not doing anything about it. If anything, she looks altogether too pleased for propriety.

He turns his attention to the portraits themselves. There’s one of Vassily, looking austere and respectable, his collar buttoned up tightly. The next is of Princess Aline Kuragin, who he’s never met and possibly never will. Dolokhov focuses on the details of her face. If he concentrates, he can see a little of Anatole in the curve of her nose, the jut of her chin. Helene favors her father, dark-complexioned and inscrutable, but there’s little resemblance to Anatole in any of them.

“Is there a portrait of Prince Kuragin?” Countess Rostova’s voice is small and almost timid, but still clearly audible.

Almost immediately, he feels the tension in the room skyrocket. Anatole doesn’t have a portrait in this gallery, he realizes with a start, and he’s not seen any elsewhere in the house. Which is a surprise. If any of the Kuragins were going to be unbearably vain, it was going to be Anatole. Why wouldn’t he want his likeness plastered everywhere?

Helene’s expression flickers to something he can’t read – fear, maybe – and she gets it back under control just as quickly. She casts a glance over at Dolokhov, perhaps looking for help. He looks back at her evenly. Her brother. Her problem. If she wanted his help, perhaps she shouldn’t have dragged him along to keep an eye on a girl he has no love for at all.

“No. He doesn’t have a portrait here.”

Countess Rostova wobbles slightly, and Dolokhov doesn’t miss the way Helene’s hand shoots out to support her by the waist. Her brow furrows, thinking hard through the three glasses of wine Helene had charmed her into drinking. “Why not?”

What an excellent question.

Helene gives him a dirty look. “He doesn’t want any. More wine?” And that’s the end of that. A few minutes later, Anatole reappears, looking the same, if a little paler than usual, and reclaims her hand. Helene claims him as her dance partner for the rest of the evening, for the two dances left before they disperse into their smaller groups to chat and mingle. Dolokhov has a feeling he’ll be making a quick exit once that happens, if the amount of wine Helene has been drinking is any indication.

The waltzing begins, and Helene pulls him out onto the floor, as they take their places in the line of couples. They dance, every movement easy and precise. They’ve done it a thousand times. Helene was the one who taught him to waltz, back when he was younger and scruffy, a child just finished with his schooling, just important enough to merit a friendship with her, and later, other things. He knows they cut a fine pair, all easy elegance as he spins her, lips close to her bare throat.

The sensation of eyes on them as a couple isn’t entirely foreign. But when he turns them both and meets Anatole’s eyes across the room, it’s something of a shock. Anatole’s expression unguarded, something close to jealousy – no, that can’t be right – in his eyes. Dolokhov gets lost in them for a moment before Helene’s cool fingers on his cheek bring him back to reality.

“Fyodor.” She catches his eyes with a wry look. Her face is flushed, her eyes a little hazy, and he knows very well his grip on her waist is what’s keeping her steady. “Take me to bed.”

Dolokhov nearly misses a beat. When he replies, his voice is guarded and even. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lena.”

Her laugh is poison. “Fyodor, darling. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.” Helene pulls him towards the hall, squeezing his hand, and Dolokhov has to pretend not to notice two pairs of eyes on them as they make their retreat.

He takes Helene back to her room and helps her undress, his fingers rough against the silk of her gown. He helps her take the pins out of her hair and lays the dress aside, holding out her nightgown for her and turning his eyes away like she’s his sister instead of a lover when she’s left in her underclothes. It’s ridiculous. He knows every inch of her body, knows it like a childhood haunt.

He’s brushing out her hair in front of her vanity when he finally asks the question that’s been bothering him all night. “Why doesn’t Anatole have any portraits?”

Helene’s expression goes flat in the mirror. When she’s like this, it’s the only way she can hide anything. Knowing that someone has a secret isn’t as good as knowing what it is, and if she doesn’t want him to know, he’d be better off trying to force it out of a French legionnaire than Helene Bezukhova.

She picks up the hairbrush and starts to work on her own hair. “I told you already. He doesn’t want them.”

Most likely, it’s true, but it’s so unspecific as to be completely unhelpful. Dolokhov scowls, grip tightening on the back of her chair. “Alright, but why? You know as well as I do that he’s the most self-absorbed man you’ll ever meet, so why won’t he –”

The brush clatters to the surface of the vanity, and Dolokhov stops short at the look on her face. She’s quickly going red, the muscles in her throat and jaw tightening and releasing as she moves her hands to her throat. Her mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out, and the breath that’s released sounds strangled and painful.

He forgets his anger for a moment and crouches beside her, searching her face, reaching for her hands. “Lena? What is it? Lena, please, you have to breathe.”

Finally, she takes a long, choking breath, and goes still, her grip on his hand like iron. “You’re a bastard, she mutters, and lets her head hang low.”

The terror uncoils from his gut. Dolokhov had known she couldn’t tell a lie. He’d just never seen her try to. He moves his thumb across the back of her hand and looks up at her. “Please. Just tell me.” He attempts a smile. “You can trust me, can’t you?”

Helene sighs and leans forward a little. “There are no mirrors in this house except mine.” She glances at it, something unreadable crosses her face. “The way his knack works – it’s not like it changes his face, you know? It’s more of a glamour than anything. It depends on people’s perceptions. Mirrors, portraits, drawings – the knack doesn’t work on those. If you saw a picture of Anatole, it would just be him. No glamour. Just him.”

He bites his lip, hesitating only for a moment. “And are there any portraits of him?” Somewhere, there have to be. How else could they know this? Helene is a clever woman, her father a mastermind of social niceties. They would have wanted to account for all the possibilities.

She’s silent for a long time. Finally, she looks up at him, eyes flinty. “I think you should go to sleep.” It’s as clear a dismissal as he’s going to get from her. Dolokhov stands, chastened, and starts towards the door. His hand touches the doorknob when her voice calls his attention back.

“Fyodor?” He pauses, turning back to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his reflection in the window, distorted and unrecognizable. “Don’t go looking for them.”

He nods, and gives his reflection one more look before hurrying away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it has been a hot minute since I've updated. Thanks for your patience in regards to updates and replies to your lovely beautiful comments! They make my heart sing, and I read them over and over and smile every time. Not to be that bitch and quote Shakespeare but "I can no answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks!"
> 
> If you like this, check out my collab with onetrueobligation ! It's about to get pretty gothic and spooky up in there, apropos of the "Picture of Dorian Gray" influences starting to pop up in here.
> 
> Thanks again for your love and support!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i finally updated didn't i huh

Elopements are expensive. Dolokhov isn’t sure why he expected Anatole to know that. It’s not as if Anatole knows much of anything else, for all the awareness he shows sometimes. Dolokhov is fairly certain he didn’t know that other people had to dress themselves, because he didn’t know they don’t have servants to do it for them, until he told him that. So it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that he doesn’t know that twenty thousand rubles is a lot of money.

“Ten thousand rubles,” Dolokhov says flatly, staring at him from across the room. “You want me to help you find ten thousand rubles so that you can elope with this girl.”

Anatole, damn him, nods enthusiastically, eyes bright and looking far too alert for this late in the night. Or early in the morning. Dolokhov has long since lost awareness of where the delineation is. “I’ll take her to Poland. Poland is romantic, isn’t it?” And he looks at Dolokhov as if he’s expecting him to have an opinion on that. It’s absurd. Dolokhov has only been out of the country when the army employs him to do so, and he certainly isn’t spending his time deducing which destinations are most suitable for an elopement financed with stolen funds and money coerced from your sister’s ex-lover.

“I have no idea,” he says flatly, and starts to stand. “Look, Anatole, where do you expect me to find ten thousand rubles?”

“I don’t know. You fleeced Nikolai Rostov at cards for what, forty-three thousand? This is much less than that.” Anatole shrugs. 

Well. Dolokhov supposes he should be grateful that he has a grasp of basic mathematics. But still. “That was different.” He leans back against the mantel, folding his arms across his chest. “I was angry. I wasn’t thinking straight. Besides, I had my friends there. It’s a lot easier to cheat someone out of money if everyone else in the game is playing for you, too.”

Anatole waves a hand, dismissive. “So? You still have friends, don’t you? Get some of them.”

He’s not going to let this go. That much is clear. As flighty and fickle as Anatole can be, he’s also disturbingly stubborn when he wants to be. And when he wants something as much as he seems to want this, he’ll drag them all along for the ride too.

Dolokhov hesitates. “Fine.” There’s no harm in him trying to help, in any case. Maybe by the time he gets anywhere close, Anatole will have given up the idea, moved on to something less likely to get him thrown into prison. Maybe he will get thrown into prison, and he’ll stop being Dolokhov’s problem. 

Anatole beams. It’s unfair how that hits him straight in the center of his chest. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

One way or another, he’ll make it work out. He doesn’t have much other choice.

***

It’s a good thing that he spends most of his evenings now out with Denisov, gambling to try and come up with a decent sum, because otherwise it would start to bother him more that Elena is avoiding him. It seems like it’s going around, really. First Anatole, now Elena, and he can’t even blame her for that. He’d seen her at her lowest, fighting to get out words that her body just wouldn’t let her have, scrambling to rebuild her dignity. At least when he lies, he can’t be caught in it quite as easily. So he doesn’t blame her for not wanting to see him.

It’s just lonely, is all. He misses his friend. As much as he enjoys Vaska’s company, his eternal good cheer starts to grate after a while, and there are some things he just doesn’t understand. Elena knows him better than anyone else ever will, ever could. She’s the one who, after his broken engagement, dragged him kicking and screaming out of the well of misery he’d made for himself. And now he can’t repay the favor.

But he’s got things to do. He can’t afford to be worrying about her when he’s supposed to be helping Anatole. He writes love letters by the ream, and once, he even signs his own name at the bottom. That letter is crumpled before Anatole ever gets a chance to read it, and later, when no one is looking, he smooths it out and reads it over at least five times before hiding it in his things.

Being part of this seems pointless in its own way. Knack or no knack, Countess Rostova is going to figure out that he’s up to no good eventually. She has friends, and relatives that, from what he’d seen at the opera, keep a close eye on her. He doesn’t want to go toe-to-toe with Marya Dmitrievna, not if he doesn’t have to. And Sonya is quicker witted than anyone gives her credit for. The moment she figures out what’s going on, she’ll bring the gates crashing down on them with all the force of a French battalion.

Wait.

This is going to come to a head sooner or later. And worse than Anatole getting caught is Anatole getting caught after he’s already taken the girl out of the country.

He goes for his coat.

***

Dolokhov isn’t sure what he’s expecting when he knocks on Marya Dmitrievna’s door, but when a maid opens the door and ushers him into a cozy parlor, he knows this isn’t it. He tells her that he’s here to see Sonya, and she looks surprised as she hurries to find her. So Sonya doesn’t usually entertain young gentleman callers. That’s interesting.

As he waits, he wonders why he thought this was a good idea. The chances that she’ll even want to see him again are slim to none, after their last conversation. How does he get her to hear him out if she doesn’t even want him in the house?

It feels like an eternity before the maid returns, expression frozen in polite sympathy. “She thanks you for coming, but she is not disposed to see anyone at the moment.”

It’s a more polite refusal than he’d expected. Dolokhov stands, folding his hands behind his back. “Tell her it’s about her cousin.”

They’ll see how far that gets him.

“My cousin is already engaged, you know.” Sonya enters the room a moment later. Had she been standing around the corner listening to their conversation? That’s more amusing than he cares to admit. And the unfriendly expression on her face is equally amusing, uncharacteristic as it is. Dolokhov gestures to the chair across from him and waves the maid away. “You won’t have any success offering your hand to her.”

Funny. That’s funny.

“I think we both know I prefer blonds.” Dolokhov’s lips quirk upwards. He’s hit with a wave of nostalgia at this, as well as a longing for something entirely new. He and Sonya wouldn’t have been a successful couple. He knows that now. But he can’t help thinking that he wouldn’t mind having her as an ally.

She sits, smoothing her skirts and looking up at him with clear eyes. “What is it that you want?” For all that she seems to be doing her best to give the impression that she’s unflappable, unbothered by his presence and unworried about what it might mean, Dolokhov can see worry lines around the corners of her mouth, and the shadows underneath her eyes. “You said it was about my cousin, I’m assuming you didn’t just come here to tell me about your love life.”

No time for pleasantries, then. That suits him just fine. Dolokhov sits down opposite her, studying her expression for any minute changes. “Has she seemed any different to you lately?” After all, he’d like to try to approach this with a certain amount of delicacy, unpleasant as it it. Somehow, he’s going to have to convince her that he can be trusted.

Sonya’s mouth tightens. “I don’t see what business it is of yours.” She starts to stand. “Natasha is very well, thank you for asking. If that’s all, perhaps you’d like to go. I’m sure you’re a very busy man.”

“Wait, wait!” He can see the opportunity to destroy this madcap scheme of Anatole’s before it picks up steam slipping away in front of him. Dolokhov holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender and stands, trying to stall her before she’s out of the room and the moment is lost, broken beyond repair. 

Sonya pushes at his hands. “I don’t know why I came in here in the first place, nothing good ever comes of men like you, and besides, haven’t you blackened our family’s reputation enough?” She’s angrier than he’s ever seen her, which is admittedly not much to be drawing assumptions from. He’d never gone back to see her after the card game that ruined everything, though he’s got a sneaking suspicion the scope of her anger would have been similar.

Dolokhov catches her wrists and holds her hands together in one firm grip. With his other hand, he fishes in his pockets, fumbling for the latest of Anatole’s letters. “Here, just — will you just read this? Please?” He thrusts it out to her and folds his hands behind his back as she snatches it and retreats a few steps. 

“This is your handwriting,” Sonya says, a few moments later, her voice suspicious. 

He hadn’t expected her to recognize it. Dolokhov blinks a few times. “He’s no good at writing love letters.”

Apparently satisfied, Sonya continues her perusal of the letter. Dolokhov waits as she finishes and tosses it down on the sofa, hands twisting together. “My god,” she whispers, eyes widening. She looks down at it again, disbelieving, then back up at Dolokhov. “How long has this been going on?”

Her shock is a little surprising, in and of itself. Somehow, Dolokhov had expected that they’d all be keeping a much closer eye on Countess Rostova. She’s supposed to be saving them from financial ruin, isn’t she? They’ve gotten complacent. Just because she’s safely engaged doesn’t mean there aren’t charming young men with platinum-colored coifs and pristine white suits waiting to have their way with pretty little country girls that aren’t capable of spotting a lie. For a moment, Dolokhov is tempted to go, to let the elopement take its course. It might very well serve them right.

Instead, he shifts his weight forward, away from the mantel, and tells it like it is. “A few weeks. He’s planning to make a move soon, though. You should act quickly. Before he gets the chance to.”

“Why should I believe you?” And the question stings a little bit, but then again, what reason does Sonya have to trust a word he says to her?

Dolokhov shrugs. “What reason do I have to lie?”

“What reason do you have to tell me about the elopement plans between your lover’s brother and my cousin?” Sonya takes a step closer to him, her fine dark eyes focused on his face, scrutinizing, trying to find any sign of a lie. She bites at her lower lip. 

“Look, it makes no difference to me if you believe me or not.” Why did he even come here, if Sonya was only going to laugh in his face, to accuse him of being a liar? Dolokhov shoves his hands into his pockets. “But if you want to keep your cousin from ruining your family entirely, you’ll listen to what I’m telling you.”

Some of the tension drains out of her shoulders. “Why are you doing this?” she asks. “I don’t understand. Why would you tell me this? They could have been halfway to Komenko by the time we knew who she was with. They could have gotten away clean. Now he’ll be ruined anyway.”

Dolokhov considers that question for a long moment. Why is he doing this? Why doesn’t he just walk away? Anatole seems determined to make this bed for himself. Why not let him lie in it?

He knows very well why. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he cares. As much as Anatole infuriates him sometimes, with his willful stubbornness and his idiotic ideas and his way of dragging Dolokhov along with him, he cares enough to make sure that Anatole doesn’t get himself into trouble he can’t handle. He cares enough to see things through to the bitter end. Somebody has to.

When they would go out drinking, before the war, Anatole could never handle his liquor. He’d get two or three drink ahead of Dolokhov and never slow down, insisting all the while that he was fine, that he could handle just a few drinks more. Dolokhov used to pay the bartender off to cut the vodka, to lessen the blow, to make sure that if Anatole fell, if he lost control, there was a softer place for him to land. This is just another way of doing that.

Sonya is still waiting for his answer. Dolokhov turns his gaze back to her. Sonya Rostova, always on the edge of the action, ever waiting in the shadows, hoping for someone to see her. They’re two of a kind, the pair of them. If they'd married - and god, what an if that would be - he could have seen a future for them. A little house on the edge of the city. Children running through the grass, with dark eyes and sharp smiles. A steady life. A life that perhaps wouldn't have been so bad.The kind of future he can't imagine for himself now. In ruining her prospects, he’d ruined himself as well.

“Call it repentance,” he finally says. “A scandal benefits no one.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Dolokhov watches it with detached surprise. “I think I might have misjudged you, Captain Dolokhov.” Sonya holds out her hand, one eyebrow quirking upwards. “Perhaps you’re a better man than I thought.”

Dolokhov bends to kiss her knuckles. “No,” he says, and it’s exhausting. He's not the man she could have married. Not anymore. And maybe that's alright. “No, I really don’t think you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the bit at the end of letters where Dolokhov and Sonya just glare at each other from across the stage


	10. Chapter 10

Today, it’ll be over, one way or another. Dolokhov can’t quite help feeling a little relieved. After today, his responsibility to this foolhardy plan will be fulfilled and it’ll be up to Elena to pick up the pieces. Tonight, he and Anatole will go to Marya Dmitrievna’s house, and if Sonya plays her part, it won’t go any further than that. That’s what he’s hoping, in any case.

He and Elena are in the study waiting for Anatole, and the uneasy silence has been stretching out between them for far too long. Elena lounges on the sofa, while Dolokhov paces back and forth from the desk to the window, marking out the number of steps it takes in a futile attempt to calm his nerves. What if something goes wrong? What if Countess Rostova manages to slip out anyway? What if Sonya isn’t believed? What if this all comes crashing down despite all his best efforts to stop it from doing so?

“Will you stop doing that? You’ll wear a hole in the carpet, and I paid quite a lot for those.”

It’s the most Elena’s spoken to him in several days. His surprise shouldn’t be out of the question.

It’s some moments before Dolokhov recovers enough presence of mind to come up with a suitably witty retort. “We’re in my house, Elena, and they’re my carpets. What on earth are you paying for them?”

She sniffs. “My sense of taste is paying for them."

Dolokhov sighs. Still, what right does he really have to be annoyed with her for a remark like that? He’s certainly borne worse from her. And he deserves it, a little, after putting her in a position of having to try to lie.

There’s another silence. Dolokhov glances at the clock, trying to determine at what point it would be appropriate to leave the room under the pretext of searching for Anatole, because even if he’s a seasoned soldier with a dozen battles under his belt, there’s nothing quite so terrifying as being trapped in a room with a woman who isn’t happy with him.

Finally, Elena drums her fingertips on the back of the sofa. She doesn’t look at him. “I’m not in love with the girl, you know.”

He’s almost surprised she can get the words out. Still, on further reflection, he has to own that it makes some sense. Love, genuine love, isn’t something he’d think to accuse Elena of. It’s not something he’d accuse any of them of. There’s something about the three of them that’s just a little warped, that doesn’t quite fit right in a world that’s just not made for them.

“I never accused you of it.” Dolokhov stops short and leans against the edge of the desk, where twenty-thousand rubles lie in neat stacks, secured in bundles with coarse brown twine. The effort he’d gone to, getting this money, and if they’re lucky, it’ll never even be used. It’s an irony he can’t quite parse at the moment.

Elena pauses. Takes a deep breath. “I just want what he gets to have,” she says, and it sounds softer and more lost than he’s ever heard her.

And if she says it, after all, it must be true.

He’d never have thought Elena to be jealous of her brother. But why shouldn’t she be? With him married and still falling into whatever beds he chose without consequence, why shouldn’t she want his freedom? 

He’s spared having to respond by Anatole walking back into the room. Christ. Here they go. It could be the end of all of them, and he just wants to go back to the army, where he knows what’s happening and everything makes sense. 

But really, what choice does he have?

***

They pull away from the Bezukhov estate much later than Dolokhov would have liked, racing off down the street in the back of Balaga’s troika. It’s quiet, except for the clatter of hooves against the pavement and the jingle of harnesses. Dolokhov passes the time sneaking glances at Anatole, trying to discern what exactly is going on in that little head of his. 

Not for the first time, Dolokhov considers how much easier things would be if he could just be in love with Elena. Being in love with Elena would be easy. They’re already closer than any two people have a right to be without being intimate in some way. If he was in love with Elena, he wouldn’t have to worry about stupid things like dragging her little brother out of scrapes he should know better than to get himself into.

Why does he do that, anyway?

Anatole clears his throat and starts chattering away about nothing. He’s bubbly and cheerful as ever, now that he’s gotten going, but there’s an undercurrent of nerves to it. His voice is a little too high, a little too fast, and he looks like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown, like he’s second-guessing himself for the first time in his life.

Dolokhov can’t help wishing that he would.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says, wishing he could make Anatole believe it. Dolokhov leans up against the window and studies him, heart thudding against his ribs. He can’t help feeling that this is the moment of no return, that if he lets Anatole go through with this, regardless of the provisions he’s made, something will be splintered between them. That it won’t be the same again.

Anatole scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t be stupid, Fedya. Of course I do.”

So he’s determined to go through with it, then. And all Dolokhov can do is stand aside and be ready to pick up the pieces.

They rattle to a stop outside the gates, and a maidservant directs them to come in through the courtyard. Dolokhov gives Anatole the most reassuring smile he can summon up, and then they’re out of the troika and on the street. Anatole takes a deep breath and starts in through the courtyard, while Dolokhov waits by the gate, ready to ease their escape.

Walking through the snow, alone, a tall, slim, dark silhouette, Anatole looks vulnerable. He looks uncertain. He looks incredibly, achingly young.

Just as he’s getting up to the porch, the door flies open, and a dark figure steps through the door. Too tall, too broad to be Countess Rostova, or even Sonya. Dolokhov squints through the dark, trying to make out the face. She steps forward again, and his heart leaps into his throat.

“You will not enter my house, scoundrel!” Marya Dmitrievna cries, and it’s as if her words split the skies of Moscow. She reaches out with one claw-like hand, trying to catch Anatole by the collar, but he’s already stumbling back. Dolokhov is running through the yard before he can even decide to do it.

Anatole doesn’t find his feet until Dolokhov is already pulling him back, away from the house, dragging him by the arm. Anatole is still stumbling, one hand coming up to clutch at his face, obscuring it from view. Dolokhov hurries him back to the troika and climbs in, and the last thing he sees as they speed away from the house is a flicker of white in an upper window, and Sonya’s pale face staring out at him.

It went off just as he’d wanted, and yet, worse than he could ever have planned for.

He turns back to Anatole, who’s making horrible whimpering sounds, curled into himself, hiding his face in his hands and the collar of his coat.

Dolokhov feels his heart jump start to a frenzied panic. He reaches out, hands hovering a few inches away from him, unsure what he’s supposed to do, what he should say. “Anatole —”

“Don’t touch me! Don’t look!” Anatole shrinks farther into himself and lets out a pained cry, hands fisting in his hair. 

It doesn’t make any sense. The elopement isn’t happening, and no one knows about it besides he and Anatole and Elena, and of course Countess Rostova, and Sonya, and - 

And Marya Dmitrievna. Marya Dmitrievna, whose good opinion is said to make or break even the creme of Moscow society. Marya Dmitrievna, the grandam of Moscow, invited to every soiree even though she has no family, no charm, no connections. He should have seen that there was something in it more than natural.

The power of her knack has only started. By tomorrow, half of Moscow will be buzzing with the rumor, and Anatole’s ruined face will only confirm their speculation. But his absence will only fuel the rumors, will only make them worse. It’ll be a vicious cycle of rumor and sunken reputation. There’s no winning. If Anatole hides or makes a stand, he loses either way.

He thought he’d been so clever, that he’d planned for every eventuality. And now, looking at Anatole, in pain and miserable, shaking in the corner, all he can think is that he didn’t see clearly at all.

The troika clatters to a halt in front of Elena’s front door, but Anatole doesn’t move. Dolokhov stares down at him, then reaches out to shakes his shoulder gently. “Anatole,” he says, insistent. “Anatole, we need to go.”

“No,” a tiny voice says from within the huddle of limbs. “People will see.”

Dolokhov tries not to lose his patience. “Anatole,” he says, squeezing his shoulder gently. “It’s the middle of the night. I promise you, nobody is going to be looking.”

Anatole shakes his head. 

He sighs and starts tugging his coat off, then hands it to Anatole. “Here. Come on. You can use this to — to cover up. If you want.” Dolokhov hesitates for a moment, then turns towards the window. “I’m not going to look,” he says, reaching back to offer up his hand. “I promise.”

There’s a silence, and a rustling of fabric, and then a hand in his own. Dolokhov smiles faintly and leads him out of the troika. He puts a hand on his shoulders to guide him up the stairs and towards the front door. Anatole has wrapped the coat almost entirely around his head and shoulders, leaving him a formless mass in the evening gloom.

Elena is waiting for them at the door with a look on her face that seems to portend an inevitable doom. Her arms outstretch, and she wraps Anatole up in them, helping him to step inside the house. A moment later, he’s out of sight, and Dolokhov starts to follow. Anatole might need the help, and this is his fault, isn’t it? If he’d just been a little smarter —

“I don’t think you should come in,” Elena says, putting a hand on his chest. Dolokhov stares at her blankly. The words don’t make any sense. Why shouldn’t he come in? Anatole’s condition is his own fault. Shouldn’t he be there to take the blame?

“My husband is home.” Elena casts a glance back at the staircase, her expression pinching into lines of tension. “If you’re here —” she starts, then hesitates. “I don’t think it would be the best idea. I’m going to need to keep the damage to a minimum, and if he sees you here —” She shrugs, grimacing, and really, that’s more than enough to get the point across. 

He’ll only make things worse. Christ. Is that all he can do?

Dolokhov nods slowly, the motion jerky, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “What about Marya Dmitrievna?” If things are to be hushed up, and he’s only got the slightest hope that they can be, someone’s going to have to do something about her. “Lena, she can change opinion, she could ruin everything.” Who’s to say she hasn’t ruined things irreparably already? Maybe there’s no more point in trying to fix it. And Anatole’s face — he didn’t get a look at all, but it must be bad, if Anatole is hiding it so stubbornly.

Elena reaches out to touch his shoulder. “I’ll take care of Masha.” The endearment takes him by surprise. It’s hard to imagine anyone referring to Marya Dmitrievna by anything other than her full name, with the patronymic. But Masha? More than that, she doesn’t seem at all surprised by what he’s told her. Dolokhov thinks of the way she and Marya had skirted around each other at the opera, never quite looking each other in the eye, and just a hint of venom in their voices.

“How long have you known?” How long have she and Marya been — and how did he manage not to notice?

She rolls her eyes, and it’s such a mundane gesture that he almost feels as if it’s just an ordinary evening. Maybe in a minute or two Anatole will come dashing down the stairs, looking as infuriatingly handsome as he always has, and they’ll all go out, the three of them, and get so drunk they’ll forget how to get home.

It’s a nice thought, anyway.

“You don’t know everything about me, Fyodor,” she says. “Come back tomorrow, hmm? I’m sure everything will be alright by then.”

Dolokhov glances up at the second story, where a light has just flickered to life in Anatole’s window. If he squints, he imagines he can almost make out Anatole’s slim figure looking down on them, features obscured in shadow.

“Tell him I’m sorry.” It’s all he can offer. As useless as he is, he can’t even offer to come in.

This time, when Elena looks at him, it’s pitying. “Come back tomorrow,” she says again. “Tell him yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhHHH i whipped this out in an afternoon to get something posted before classes get crazy so i'm sorry if it sucks


	11. Chapter 11

It takes less than five minutes for Dolokhov to realize that without the option of sleeping in the room in Elena’s house he’s come dangerously close to considering his own, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s too late at night to go to his mother’s house, and he doesn’t want to explain why he looks and feels like a dead man walking.

The club, then. The staff are familiar enough with him from his previous nights spent there that they might not mind him curling up in a corner to get a few hours of sleep. If that fails, he can just drink until the morning, can’t he?

It takes longer than it should to realize that that isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. But, Christ, he feels like curling up and dying in the road, and the only thing that feels like it’ll fix it is to drink as much as possible, as soon as he can. 

He hardly tastes the first drink, or the second. By the time he hits the third, his head is spinning pleasantly, but he can’t stop thinking about where things could have gone wrong. Why didn’t he see this coming?

The vodka can’t erase how tiny and terrified Anatole looked in the back of the troika, trying desperately to hide, and looking as if he’d rather be dead. It can’t make him forget how he’d seemed like a shadow of his old self. Of course, an hour and an indeterminate number of glasses of vodka, he can’t remember very much at all, except that there’s a churning in his chest that all the liquor in Moscow can’t seem to take away.

“Dolokhov?” A somehow familiar voice cuts through the haze clouding his thoughts. Dolokhov looks up from where he’s slumped over the table, eyes bleary. He squints, trying to make out the face.

Denisov’s eternally sunny demeanor is quickly approaching alarm by the time he recognizes him. Not that Dolokhov particularly blames him. He doesn’t doubt that he cuts a particularly concerning figure at the moment, eyes red, surrounded by empty shot glasses.

“Vaska,” he finally says, and waves him closer, indicating the empty chair beside him. “Sit, sit, sit down. Didn’t think you were still in Moscow.” He has to be careful with the words, tasting every syllable carefully before letting it out, half afraid they’ll get away from him and betray just how drunk he is.

“I thought you were staying with Countess Bezukhov. Dolokhov, it’s nearly dawn. Where is she? Why are you still here?”

“Why are _you_ here?” 

To be fair, in his head, it feels a lot more clever of a retort.

Denisov sighs and reaches down to haul him upright. Dolokhov pushes weakly at his hands, but only ends up overbalancing, and then colliding heavily with Denisov. “Because one of the other men under your command saw you here an hour ago and came to find me. Thought you would be needing some help. I didn’t believe him, but I came anyway, and now I see I owe him an apology.”

The insult of that coils low in his gut and sets all his anger and guilt and shame bubbling to the surface. Dolokhov swears, struggling to try and get free. “I’ll have the bastard flogged, who does he think he is, going over my head — !” 

“Stop that,” Denisov says, implacable as ever, and digs his fingers into the joint of Dolokhov’s neck and shoulder so hard he’s forced to calm. “You can’t have people flogged for caring about you, Fedya.”

Dolokhov sags, sulky as a child. “He was trying to have me humiliated,” he mutters.

“If he wanted you humiliated you, he wouldn’t have done a thing.” Denisov looks him over and tsks. “You’ve made a proper mess of yourself, haven’t you?” He pauses, but Dolokhov doesn’t answer. “Well. You’re staying at my house for the rest of the night. You can sober up. We can talk.”

That sounds like the last thing he wants.

He sulks all the way back to Denisov’s, well aware that it’s a childish way to behave, but unable to resist indulging for a little while. Who is Vaska, really, to swoop in and try to save him from himself, to interfere, as if he has any idea what’s been going on? And who would tell him to come in the first place? He’ll find that man, and teach him a lesson, whether Vaska likes it or not.

He doesn’t quite remember getting out of the troika and into Denisov’s house, but the next thing he knows, he’s sitting on a ratty sofa with a mug of something that smells like turpentine in his hands. Denisov is sitting across from him, hands folded in his lap, looking at him like his mother used to when he’d done something like torment the neighbor’s chickens.

Dolokhov doesn’t like that look at all.

“So,” Denisov says, and clears his throat. It doesn’t make him seem any less like a disappointed parent. “What’s all this about?”

He stays quiet. It’s no one’s business, anyway. Denisov doesn’t need to know.

“I’ve heard some things,” he continues. “About you. And Prince Kuragin. And Countess Natalya Rostova.”

So rumor is spreading already. They’re sunk, then. Any hope he might have gleaned from Elena’s promise to deal with Marya Dmitrievna is worth nothing. Dolokhov hunches his shoulders and shakes his head. “It’s not true,” he says, and is almost surprised at how desperate it sounds. If he can’t even make Denisov believe him —

“I might be more inclined to believe that if I hadn’t found you drowning yourself in vodka.” Denisov smiles. “Come on, Fedya. You might be a good liar, but I know you.” He pauses, drumming his fingers against his knees. “I just want to know. Are you alright?”

For a moment, the question doesn’t register. Dolokhov just stares at him. Is he alright? Why ask him that, when it’s Anatole that’s hurting, when it’s other people who’ll feel the sting of this most sharply? 

“No,” he says, and almost doesn’t realize it. He swallows thickly, and stares down at the mug, trying his best not to inhale the steam rising off of it. He doesn’t mean for the tight thing coiling in his gut to come climbing up his throat and out his mouth, but it does, and he’s tired of keeping it in. “I’m not alright, Vaska.”

And Denisov just sits there and listens. He listens when Dolokhov tells him about the affair, about how Anatole had just had to have this girl, how he wouldn’t listen to anyone trying to tell him no. He listens when Dolokhov tells him, faltering, about the elopement, and just how wrong it had gone. 

“It’s my fault,” he says, voice jagged with raw emotion. “I let this happen, and I can’t fix it.”

Denisov frowns. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he says, but Dolokhov waves a hand. 

“It’s fine.” He forces a smile that comes out bleak, and weak, and exhausted. “I’m just a worthless bastard. Everybody knows that.” And it feels like the truest thing he’s ever spoken.

But Denisov just looks at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. “Fedya.” Dolokhov braces himself for chastisement, or worse, agreement. “I’m absolutely sure that the only who who believes that is you.”

And it’s — that’s just — He looks at Denisov, trying to come up with a suitable retort, but can’t think of a single thing to say. 

“What if you’re wrong?” he finally manages, and hates how weak it sounds.

Denisov tilts his head to the side. “What if you are?”

***

The next thing he registers properly is waking up on Denisov’s sofa, the blanket tangled around his legs. His skull is pounding like artillery fire, his mouth tastes like mud, and everything seems to be slightly out of focus. Dolokhov groans and tries to sit up, then falls heavily back against the cushions, the pounding spiking sharply at the attempt.

What the hell happened to him last night?

For a moment, he’s left wondering. For a moment, he forgets entirely the disaster that was last night. 

“Good morning,” Denisov says, voice dry as bone, and it all comes rushing back. Dolokhov buries his face against the cushions and lets out a muted groan. The guilt is back, twisting him into knots, and he’s beginning to wonder if staying here forever wouldn’t be a better option than getting up and facing the mess he’s made.

Denisov whacks him upside the head, and he resists the urge to roll over and glare daggers at him. Mostly because that would mean moving, and he’s certain that if he moves, he’s going to vomit. But he isn’t given much of a choice when Denisov reaches down to drag the blankets off of him and force him upright.

“Not fair,” he mutters, but Denisov is pushing another mug of something suspicious into his hands.

“Hangover cure,” Denisov says by way of explanation, and stares at him until he takes a tentative sip. It tastes awful, but some of the ache starts to fade. Dolokhov keeps drinking it, resenting him all the while. But it’s futile. There’s not a man alive who can resent Denisov for long, not with his eternally sunny temperament.

Denisov takes the mug back, then vanishes for a little while into a room he hasn’t seen yet. Dolokhov wraps the blanket around his shoulders and stares down at his hands. What is he meant to do now? Where does he go from here?

His thoughts are interrupted by something soft colliding with his head. Dolokhov yelps and catches them, surprised to find that they’re his own clothes. “Where did you — ” He looks down at himself, alarmed, and finds that he’s in a set of nightclothes that don’t belong to him. He casts his panicked gaze back at Denisov, who just shrugs.

“I’ve seen everything.” 

That’s not reassuring.

Denisov continues. “Well, go on. Get dressed. I can’t have you around here all day. You should be getting back to the Countess, shouldn’t you?” He pauses, and the smile on his face is something like the cat that ate the canary. “And her younger brother.”

That’s right. It’s tomorrow. He can go back. He can — well, God knows what he’s actually going to be able to accomplish. But he can try. Dolokhov isn’t sure he’s ever moved quite so fast to get dressed and out the door.

“Yes, alright, you can thank me later,” Denisov calls after him, and as he hurries down the street, Dolokhov is certain he hears him laughing.

He gets to Elena’s house in record time, heart racing from the morning’s chill and what he isn’t going to admit are nerves. Dolokhov knocks at the front door, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in an attempt to stay warm, and waits. It opens. On the other side is Elena, who stares out at him, hair in disarray, looking pale and drawn. It’s so far removed from the picture of elegance she usually presents that Dolokhov has to take a moment to recover.

“Oh. It’s you.” Elena’s knuckles whiten on the doorknob. “I suppose you’ll want to come in and collect your things.” She turns and walks back inside, leaving the door wide open. It’s neither an invitation nor a refusal, so Dolokhov follows.

The inside of the house looks like a war zone, and the damage only increases as they approach the study. Dolokhov bites his lip and stays quiet. Papers and books are strewn everywhere with a remarkable lack of care for someone who spends so much time with them. It’s Pierre’s doing, is all he can think. Who else?

A chair lies splintered in pieces on the floor. Dolokhov winces at the sight of it. 

Elena stops in the study, staring at the desk, with a glass paperweight smashed on its surface, shards of it sticking out of the wood at odd angles. She picks up a few papers and shuffles them together, then rearranges them, putting them back in order before setting them back in their place on the desk. Both she and Dolokhov pretend not to notice that the trembling of the papers has nothing to do with her own shaking hands.

“Lena?” Dolokhov reaches out for her hand, but she avoids the touch neatly, fussing with a stray piece of her hair falling loose. Dolokhov swallows hard. In the aftermath, it’s hard to know what to do, what to say. “What happened?”

She makes a sharp, bitter sound. It takes a moment to realize that it’s meant to be a laugh. “My husband happened.” Elena clenches her hands at her sides. It seems to be the only thing that’s keeping her from hunting Pierre down herself and rending him limb from limb. If the damage to her house is anything to go on, Dolokhov isn’t certain that he can blame her for that.

“And?” he prompts, moving his hand in a circular gesture.

“He got angry. Nearly bashed Toto’s head in with a paperweight. I convinced him there’d been a mistake, that the rumors were false. He’s gone out.” She kicks viciously at the fragments of the chair, and Dolokhov is certain that it isn’t the whole story. “He’s letting Toto stay here for now. Until he can learn what’s really happening.”

Dolokhov frowns. “And what about — ” He bites his lip. There’s no easy way to ask this. “What about his face, Lena? Have you spoken to Marya Dmitrievna?”

She hesitates just long enough that he notices it. Elena twists her hands. “I spoke to her,” she says, and it doesn’t sound as if good news is going to follow that. “She won’t put things back the way they were. She says it’s as much as he deserves.”

Oh, Jesus. Anatole must be desolate. And what of Countess Rostova? What does she think of events as they’ve unfolded? Does she still think Anatole the same charming prince, coming to carry her away?

“I’m sorry.” It feels like a poor offering in return for what he’s brought on them. Dolokhov casts about, looking for something to salvage, something he might be able to save from the wreckage. He catches a glimpse of the edge of a frame, and makes for it. It looks as if it might be whole. And if that’s the case, maybe things aren’t so terrible. “Look, look over here, there’s something whole.”

His fingers land on the edge of the frame, and Elena’s horrified voice cries out, “Don’t touch that!”

As a child, his mother often scolded him for prying into affairs that were none of his business. Once, at the age of twelve, he got a beating from the neighbors for wandering into their house with his sister in search of buried treasure, and getting preoccupied with their silver. 

He looks at the painting. Of course he does.

And it’s Anatole. He’s a few years younger, just a little less lean and angular. His eyes are the same, blue chips of ice staring out. Dolokhov takes a tentative step back, suddenly quite unable to breathe.

He looks the same. How can that be possible? He looks exactly as Dolokhov has always seen him. But Elena said — she said that Anatole’s knack didn’t work in paintings and drawing, that it would show him — 

As he always was beneath.

Dolokhov thinks of the way Pierre saw nothing when he touched him, how Sonya couldn’t give him her happiness, and isn’t sure if what’s bubbling in his chest is fear. He’d thought he had no knack, after dueling Pierre. Perhaps he just hadn’t been looking in the right place.

Elena is suddenly right beside him, expression twisting. “Surely it’s not so hideous,” she says, voice low and venomous.

“No,” Dolokhov says, breathless. “No, not at all.”

He has to know. He has to be certain. Dolokhov hurries towards the stairs without a further word of explanation, making his way to Anatole’s room. He pushes open the door, and Anatole turns from the window. His eyes widen as he catches sight of Dolokhov. His hands come up to hide his face, and he starts to turn, but it’s too late.

Dolokhov takes a halting step into the room. Anatole’s eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks pale and tired from what was no doubt a sleepless night, but other than that, he’s just the same. Not like the days where he’s supposed to have been at his best, magnetic and glowing. Certainly not as repellent as Marya Dmitrievna would have him be.

If his knack doesn’t work on Dolokhov now, if he’s not repulsed after all of Marya’s efforts, it’s never worked. Maybe all the charm, the pull he exerts, maybe it had nothing to do with magic or knacks or the Kuragin family’s name and money. Maybe it was just Anatole all along. And the anger, the jealousy and possessiveness and tenderness for Anatole he’d put down to the knack, that means —

For someone so prized for his aim, Dolokhov thinks, this is the first time he’s seen clearly. 

He takes another step into the room. Anatole falters, wrings his hands. His blue eyes are wide and fearful. He looks like a child, bracing for a blow. He looks like a bird, poised to take flight. Dolokhov’s heart aches for him, but he can’t find the words, not now.

He takes Anatole’s hands, keenly aware of the way the calluses and rough edges of his hands scrape against Anatole’s palms. Anatole looks down, hiding his eyes.

“Look at me,” Dolokhov says quietly, moving his thumbs across Anatole’s palms. Anatole shakes his head, a tiny, stubborn movement. Dolokhov releases one of his hands to cup his cheek, tilting his face up. “Please?”

Anatole meets his gaze, and Dolokhov’s breath catches in his throat at the terror in his eyes.

“Is it ugly?” Anatole asks, soft and uncertain.

He shakes his head. It’s Anatole. How could it be?

“I don’t care if it is,” he says. “I don’t see it at all.”

Anatole shifts, but doesn’t pull away. His hand and cheek are warm, Dolokhov notes, through the pounding in his ears. “Don’t lie to me.” It comes out faint and nearly pleading. “Not you.”

Dolokhov smiles. “I don’t see it,” he says again, and there’s a delicious warmth blossoming in the pit of his chest. “I just see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck two chapters in one week? somebody was sipping the productivity juice
> 
> your comments, likes, and feedback makes my heart sing!


	12. Chapter 12

It’s that afternoon that the post comes. Dolokhov is sitting on the chaise with Elena, drinking a cup of truly horrible tea that he doesn’t doubt she’s tried to prepare herself. He takes a reluctant sip, mindful of the way she’s clinging to her cup as if it’s a lifeline. He hasn’t seen Pierre since he’s been here, and given the way she keeps glancing at the closed, locked, door to his study, he’s certain that he doesn’t want to.

The mail slot rattles, and Elena rises to go and collect the post. As she goes, Dolokhov glances up at the ceiling. Anatole is up there, he’s sure. He can hear tentative footsteps coming down the hall, nothing like Anatole’s usual jaunty step. He still won’t leave the house, but at least he’s ventured outside his room. And he hasn’t spoken to Anatole since that morning. Dolokhov bites his lip and resists the urge to kick himself. What had he been thinking, saying something like that? What had he thought would happen? That somehow, everything would be alright? That any thing he could do would come close to making things better?

Elena comes back into the room, face gone white. She’s clutching a letter in one hand, and using her other hand to brace herself against the wall. Dolokhov stands and hurries towards her, heart thudding against his ribs. “Elena? What is it?”

In his mind, he’s already coming up with ideas, each of them more ludicrous and horrible than the last. The army is pressing Anatole into service. Napoleon is outside the city. Marya Dmitrievna is coming to personally fillet all of them.

“It’s Bolkonsky,” she says, and that’s worse than anything he could have come up with. “He’s back in Moscow, he’s heard what we’ve done, and - and -” She pushes the letter at him and reaches for her handkerchief. “Just read it!” Her voice is shaky and uncertain and utterly terrifying. He’s always been used to Elena being the one with ideas, the one who pulls them out of scrapes. Her fear is contagious.

Dolokhov reads through the letter as quickly as he can, praying that it won’t be as bad as he’s anticipating. And it isn’t as bad. It’s worse. It’s a note from Bolkonsky, saying in no uncertain terms that Anatole has injured his honor beyond the bounds of forgiveness. It’s an incitement to duel.

His heart sinks into the pit of his stomach, and he looks up at Elena with wide eyes. “No,” he says breathlessly.

If it were anyone else, it might not be so bad. Elena, or Prince Kuragin, or someone, would step in and pay the challenger off, and all would be forgiven, all would go back to the way it was. But Bolkonsky is incensed, and rightfully so, and if Dolokhov recalls anything about the man from the time they’d served together, it’s that he won’t back down. That, and his knack, might just undo them all.

“It’s my fault,” Elena whispers. “I convinced Pierre to let him stay here a little while, if we’d just sent him away to Petersburg—!” She breaks off and sits down heavily on the chaise, covering her face with her hands. “He can barely fire a gun, Fedya!”

Dolokhov sits back down beside her and reaches out to take her hands. “Maybe you can work something out. Maybe he’ll agree to a peace.”

She makes a choked, scoffing sound, and bats his hands away. “Don’t be stupid. You know the man. Do you seriously think he’ll allow himself to be made a fool of?”

No. No, she’s right. 

“And Anatole will have to accept, or you know it’ll only make things worse.” She clasps her hands in her lap and stares down at them. “Refusing would only sink his reputation even more. He’s barely hanging on as it is now.”

And he can’t deny that. Not even a little. 

Dolokhov might not be certain exactly where he and Anatole stand, but he’s not about to let Andrey Bolkonsky put a bullet in him.

“I’ll do it,” he says softly, and is almost surprised when Elena looks up, uncomprehending.

“No, you won’t.” She shakes her head as if she’s trying to banish the thought altogether. “The challenge isn’t even addressed to you. You can’t go and do that.” There’s an edge of desperation to her voice now, one that would be flattering if he weren’t so afraid. 

“Elena.” He moves a little closer and forces a smile, trying somehow to comfort her with that, if he can. “You want your brother safe, don’t you? I know you’re a good sister. I know that’s what you want.” Dolokhov tilts his head to the side. “Let me take care of it.”

She makes a choking sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You can miss now, idiot,” she says. She looks fragile, all the charm and magnetic energy leaking out of her at the seams. “What do you think I’m going to do if you die?”

His stomach twists. All this time, he’d never been really sure if she’d cared at all. If she’d ever needed him the way he’d needed her. Dolokhov takes her hands, presses a kiss to her palms. “You’re my closest friend.” Of course she is. That’s hardly even a question, when they’ve been attached at the hip for years. Dolokhov studies her face, trying to memorize every detail of it. Just in case. “But you would manage without me.”

Elena looks up, wide-eyed, but Dolokhov shoots her a warning look at the sound of Anatole clattering down the stairs, whistling something under his breath. At the same moment, his gaze and Dolokhov’s land on the letter, abandoned on the side table. Dolokhov feels his heart stutter in his throat at the same moment that Anatole reaches out to pick it up. He lunges in to snatch it up, and crumples it into a tight ball. Whatever else, Anatole isn’t going to find out about this from that letter.

He turns to Elena, expecting her to take over, to explain it all. But she’s frozen in place, expression stricken.

“Elena,” he says, and his voice sounds distant even to his own ears. “Why don’t you go and make some more tea?”

She nods and hurries out of the room.

Anatole takes a hesitant step forward and lets out a shaky laugh. “So,” he starts. “What’s going on?” He nods at the crumpled piece of paper in Dolokhov’s hands. “Unless you’re going to tell me that that’s the bill for all those clothes Elena bought last week.”

No nonsense, then. No beating around the book. He can handle that. Dolokhov knows perfectly well that he has no talent for deception, for coating things to make them more palatable.

He meets Anatole’s gaze as evenly as he can. “Prince Bolkonsky has challenged you to a duel,” he says slowly. “I’m taking care of it for you.”

Anatole’s eyes flicker between his face, and the doorway through which Elena had just vanished. He bites at his lip, no doubt taking stock of the way she’d looked, forlorn and miserable, and how she’d hardly been able to look him in the eye.

Dolokhov waits. He isn’t stupid, no matter what anyone says. It won’t take him long.

Anatole’s expression shifts, twisting incomprehensibly. “You’re not seriously planning on going dueling for me,” he says, voice flat, like he thinks he can make it so just by saying it. There’s an odd undercurrent of nervousness to it, too, though, that he can’t understand.

Dolokhov shrugs. Why shouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t he do that for him? When they’d first known each other, he’s used Anatole for nothing more than his influence, his money, and his complete inability to sense when someone wasn’t terribly impressed with him. Time has changed things in ways he would never dare to admit to him, but he’s begun to think that he owes Anatole this much.

The question isn’t why he would do this for Anatole. The question is why Anatole would bother to try to stop him.

“You can’t,” he says softly, gaze fixed on him. Dolokhov shifts, uncomfortable, but doesn’t look away. Anatole’s eyes focus intently on his face, trying to will him into something. 

He tilts his head to the side, and shakes it slowly. “I am.”

Anatole’s expression falters, and he looks for a moment like he’s about to burst into tears. He takes another hesitant step forwards. “Come back.” His voice trembles, just slightly, and it breaks Dolokhov’s heart, just a little.

He can’t promise that, and there’s a very simple reason why. It’s the same reason why Bolkonsky has risen so quickly through the ranks of the Russian army, why he’s gone to the front lines and come back unscathed, the same reason why there’s rumors that he can’t be killed. Dolokhov has seen him fight firsthand, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid.

Bolkonsky’s knack makes him practically untouchable in combat. Dolokhov is no match for that at all. Some knacks might not work on him now, but he’s not keen to test that out on his own skin, and even though he’ll have the first chance to shoot, there’s no guarantee now that he’ll be able to make that shot.

But Anatole is asking him to come back. To be careful. And that means that he has to try.

Dolokhov gives him a faint smile. “I will,” he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh we're not done yet buckle up


	13. Chapter 13

It doesn’t occur to Dolokhov until he’s halfway to the dueling grounds that perhaps he should have listened to the nagging feeling in his gut that he shouldn’t be doing this. By the time he reaches the place they’re to meet, the doubt has grown into a full-fledged fear. What had he been thinking? Fighting a man like Bolkonsky is a terrible idea. Grieving and angry as he must be, he’s unlikely to back down from this challenge. And with a knack like his, he’s unlikely to lose, either.

It might not be the first time he’s stuck his neck out for Anatole, but the way things look now, it might be the last.

For a moment, he imagines not going at all, imagines leaving the city and never looking back. It would be the last thing anyone would expect of him, not when the ladies of Moscow are singing praises about his courage. They don’t know him, he thinks. They don’t know what a coward he is, deep down where nobody gets to see.

The dueling ground is chilly and deserted, snow crunching under his boots. As he approaches Bolkonsky and his second, Dolokhov is keenly aware how small and unimposing he must look. How desperate.

If he wins, fine. That will keep the damage from spreading any further. If he loses — and god knows if he’ll be in a state to care at that point — at least the focus will be on him, rather than Anatole. It’s pitiful that losing is still better than not coming at all.

Bolkonsky lets out a sound between a laugh and a scoff at the sight of him. “I didn’t invite you,” he says, small hands fiddling with his pistol. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and a wrinkle on his forehead. He doesn’t look like the sort of man who, by all accounts, can’t be killed.

Dolokhov shrugs one shoulder. “You didn’t specify.”

He glances between Dolokhov and his second, and nods. “Fine,” he says, and scuffs his boots in powdery snow. “It doesn’t matter to me.” His gaze focuses on something behind Dolokhov’s shoulder, and his thin lips pull upwards. Dolokhov has never met his father, Prince Nikolai Bolkonsky, but the resemblance is clear as daylight. He smiles, and his face twists, aging and cold. “Unless you’re still waiting for someone else.”

It doesn’t make any sense. But Dolokhov turns, half-expecting Bolkonsky to shoot him as soon as his back is turned. But he doesn’t, and Dolokhov’s heart leaps into his throat at a familiar silhouette approaching. The face is swaddled in a scarf, only the eyes showing. It’s Anatole. He’s not certain what he was expecting. That Anatole would let him go to an uncertain demise willingly? Perhaps. Whatever this is, whatever is going on between them, he’s not sure he’d trusted Anatole not to look out for his own interests exclusively.

But he’s here. That has to mean something.

“Excuse me for a minute,” he says, barely hearing the words, and hurries over to Anatole. “What are you doing here?” He means it to sound scolding. He really does. Instead, it comes out breathless. Hopeful. 

“In case you need a doctor, stupid.” He sounds terribly irritated. It almost makes him want to laugh. Then Anatole steps forward, tugging on his sleeve. Dolokhov can’t see the rest of his face, but his eyes are deadly serious. “If you get killed, I will personally drag you out of hell. You can count on that.”

It shouldn’t be so comforting. But hearing Anatole so irritated, so normal, almost makes him feel as if everything could turn out alright. Dolokhov forces down a smile and pulls his arm a little farther away. “I have no doubt that you would.” Maybe it’s a platitude. But doesn’t it mean something that Anatole would come here at all?

Anatole’s hand finds his arm again. Persistent little thing. “You know he can’t be beaten, don’t you?”

He shrugs one shoulder, meeting Anatole’s eyes with a rueful expression, then looks down at his boots. “I don’t need to win.” All he needs to do is finish this, one way or another. There are plenty of ways to do that. He doesn’t have to win to get what he wants. He doesn’t even have to survive.

“Are you finished?” Bolkonsky sounds just as irritated as Anatole. Dolokhov reaches out to squeeze Anatole’s arm, then turns to face him. “Let’s not waste any more time. I’ve been more than fair.”

It’s funny. Fair isn’t something he’d have ever thought to accuse Bolkonsky of being. But in what world doesn’t he have the right to be angry? After the blow they’d dealt him, Dolokhov isn’t sure how he’d react himself.

He thinks of Sonya and Nikolai, and revises the thought. He knows exactly how he’d react.

The moments leading up to the duel are a blur. Vaguely, he feels cold metal pressing against his palm, hears the second counting down, and then he turns to face Bolkonsky.

Dolokhov takes a shaky breath and raises his pistol. He doesn’t have to win to get what he wants. He doesn’t even have to survive. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try to.

And when it comes down to it, it’s as instinctive as it ever was. The world narrows down to the line of sight down the barrel of his pistol. Dolokhov inhales, sights, releases the trigger on the exhale and watches the bullet speed away. Time slows down.

Bolkonsky’s torso twists, his left shoulder going back. Distantly, Dolokhov realizes that he’s made the thought. Blood drips against the snow in ugly red patches. Not a perfect shot. But a good one, nonetheless.

Dolokhov drops the pistol, breath rattling against his ribs. Somehow, impossibly, he’s done it. The expressions on the faces of everyone there look just as shocked as he feels. 

Bolkonsky raises his head and looks right at him. The expression of naked fear is something he’s seen before, something terribly, intimately familiar. “I forfeit,” he says, voice rasping against his threat. He staggers to his feet, leaning heavily against his friend. His eyes are wide with pain and fear, but clear. He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know what you are, but I wish for us to never meet again.”

He’s won. It still doesn’t quite feel real.

Tentatively, Anatole moves to stand beside him, and together, they watch as Bolkonsky leaves.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says. “You shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

Dolokhov turns his head to look at him, and Anatole backpedals. “I mean, I’m glad that you’re not dead, but it wasn’t possible for you to do that! Nobody can. Everybody knows that.”

His lips twitch, and he shifts his weight. The adrenaline is still flooding his system, and it’s making him think dangerous things, get ideas that he shouldn’t. It’s twisting his stomach into knots in the most pleasant of ways, and he doesn’t understand what it means, or what might come out of his mouth next.

The words that come out don’t sound like something that belongs to him. They sound like the words of a man who might get to be happy. Worth something.

“I think that after practicing as many hours as I have, I’d be able to make a shot like that, easy.” 

The scarf slips down around Anatole’s neck. He can see his face more clearly now, the slight flush making its way down his neck. Dolokhov doesn’t reach out to touch it. He just smiles, and Anatole gapes, stammering for a moment before finding his bearings again. 

“Don’t be like that,” he finally manages to say. “Honestly, Fedya. Don’t. It isn’t polite.”

“Since when have you ever cared about being polite?” But Anatole looks quite serious. Dolokhov sighs. What does he have to lose, now? Hasn’t he done everything and anything he can to keep Anatole out of trouble? He’s never going to be higher in Anatole’s esteem than now. A part of him is wondering when he started caring so much about what Anatole thought of him. Perhaps he’d never thought Anatole would.

“I haven’t known for very long,” he says. “Other people’s knacks — they don’t work on me. Most of the time. I haven’t really tested it. But—” But then he looks back at Anatole, who’s gone a strange pallor.

“Don’t lie,” he says, voice strangled. He clears his throat and takes a step back, searching Dolokhov’s face intently. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long?” It’s high and fast and much more desperate than Dolokhov would have thought possible from him. Why does Anatole even seem to care so much?

He pulls a face. “I don’t know. Forever.” And it’s true. There’s no way of knowing how long this has been in him. But Anatole has never looked different to him. He’s not sure he’d realize even if he did.

Anatole makes a choking sound. “You mean — you were seeing my real face this whole time, and you — and you still—” He breaks off, thinking, and Dolokhov can’t help but freeze up. He’s thinking it through, and Dolokhov is bracing himself for a rejection, because Anatole is going to see right through him, and see that he’s pathetic, and all this will have been for nothing, nothing at all.

But then Anatole lets out a breathless, delighted laugh, and flings himself forward to tackle him into the snow. Dolokhov cries out, startled, but Anatole is laughing and pressing kisses to his neck and it’s so hard to think at all so he just doesn’t. It’s not worth the time when everything else about this is so inexplicably perfect. For the moment, it doesn’t matter that Anatole knows now about his feelings, whatever it is they are. He couldn’t care less. He can’t keep denying himself the things he wants because he doesn’t think he deserves them. Not when he’s the only one standing in his way.

Anatole pulls back to look at him. “You’re such an idiot,” he murmurs. “I thought — I saw the way you looked at me. I thought it was because of, you know. The way I am.” He hesitates. “I didn’t want it to be just that.”

His heart twists painfully, and he reaches up to touch Anatole’s cheek. “No,” he says softly. “No. It was just you.”

Anatole’s smile is blinding as he he holds out a hand to pull Dolokhov to his feet. “Come on,” he says, putting his other hand in his pocket. “You know, I’ve always heard St. Petersburg is beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhh almost done ajjhhoas;kjlasdkljafsdkjlsdakljsdakl


	14. Chapter 14

The day after his house goes quiet, after his brother-in-law and Dolokhov slip out under the cover of darkness, and he and his wife wake up in their separate rooms to silence and stillness, without the ever present hum of Anatole puttering about, his voice always too loud, Pierre goes to see Marya Ahkrosimova.

Elena is sitting on the sofa in the smaller parlor when he starts towards the front door, and he doesn’t see her until he’s almost past her. Pierre stops short, his gaze fixed on her face. She’s in her traveling clothes, reading through a packet of papers, and looks up when he enters. Something flickers across her expression, something twisting and desperately afraid. But it’s gone just as quickly, and she rises from her seat and starts towards him.

“You’re up earlier than usual,” Pierre says. Tense as their marriage has been, he’s still never certain what to expect from her, whether she’ll be the charming girl he’d thought he could love, or the woman who screams and mocks and doesn’t care at all.

She meets his eyes with an even expression. “I’m leaving you.”

By the door, Pierre sees a few valises and a traveling case, packed and ready to be carried away. His heart pounds in his ears, and he’s not sure how to react, whether to laugh or cry.

“Why?” His voice comes out plaintive, and as soon as he asks, he knows it’s a stupid question. Why wouldn’t Elena leave him? When has she ever wanted him? How quickly after their wedding did he realize he’d been used? And besides, if he’d been better, if he’d been more handsome and less stupid, she might have wanted him along with his money. But they’ve never touched each other, and he’s never sure if it’s because he didn’t want her touch, or because he repulsed her that much.

Her expression softens slightly. “Because we’re no good for each other, Pyotr,” she says, and it’s not the searing indictment he’d been expecting at all. Elena hesitates. “I want to be happy. I think I deserve that. And you can’t give me that. And I can’t make you happy either. It’s not your fault. But I have to go.”

She glances towards the door, and extends her hand. “Wish me farewell?”

He can feel the warmth of her hand through the thin fabric of his gloves as he clasps it, and the sudden chill when she releases him, but that’s all, really.

***

Looking up at the Ahkrosimova estate, all Pierre can feel is a rising sensation of dread in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to be here, not really, but Marya Dmitrievna isn’t the kind of woman one just refuses. Even if he doesn’t want to see the young Countess Rostova, not after her betrayal of his closest friend, he isn’t in much of a place to say no. 

But cheer her up, that’s what Marya had said. How is he meant to do that for a woman he despises?

Natasha stands in the middle of the drawing room with a pale, yet steady face. Pierre steps through the doorway, noticing the flush that suffuses itself across her cheeks at the sight of him, and the way she looks down at the floor, as if she’s ashamed. A strange feeling of pity and nostalgia wells up in his chest, and Pierre’s memory flickers back to the first ball he’d attended at the Rostovs’ estate, when Natasha had gone to the middle of the ballroom to sing, her posture just the same. But the look on her face is quite different from the young girl she’d been then.

“Peter Kirillovich,” she starts, her voice quiet and almost hopeful.

“Pierre.” Already, he’s feeling off his balance, unprepared to see her like this, so miserable. Still, he can’t help correcting her gently, feeling at all at once the terrible consequences of what she’s done. She’s just a young woman. He has no doubt the world has been cruel enough already.

Natasha takes a deep breath and continues to speak, her eyes not leaving the floor. “Prince Bolkonsky was your friend. He is your friend still. He once told me that I should turn to you.”

Pierre sniffs as he looks at her, but doesn’t speak. Till then he had reproached her, tried to despise her, but now the pity he feels for her leaves no room in his soul for reproach. And the letters from Andrey, the ones in his hands — suddenly, it doesn’t seem like a good time to bring those out.

Her hands are shaking, and the pain in her voice is enough to be pitied. “He is here now. Tell him to — tell him to forgive me.”

He can still see Andrey’s cold fury in his mind’s eye, and the hurt behind it that he’s sure Andrey wouldn’t want anyone else to see. Pierre lifts his head, expression pained. “Yes, I will tell him to forgive you, but he gave me your letters—”

“No, I know that all is over!” Natasha’s voice, stronger now, cuts him off, and Pierre is the one to look away this time. “I know that it never can be,” she says, softening, and he can hear the childlike regret in it. “But still I'm tormented by the wrongs I've done him. Tell him that I beg him to forgive — forgive — forgive me for everything.” She turns her wide, luminous eyes on him, and somehow, he can’t refuse.

“Yes, I will tell him, tell him everything,” Pierre says, and hesitates, halfway to forgiving her before she can even ask. “But - but I should like to know one thing. Did you love—” He thinks of Anatole, thinks of the way he would so easily have left her behind, have ruined her like everything else he’s left in wreckage. “—did you love that bad man?”

Her expression twists. “Don’t call him bad!” When she goes on, it’s halting and unsure. “But I don’t know, I don’t — I don’t know at all.” And then, suddenly, she dissolves into tears, quiet sniffling to wrenching, ugly sobs, and Pierre finds himself taken aback for the second time in as many moments. He swallows, and reaches out, but pulls his hands away, unsure how to console her. A greater sense of pity, tenderness and love cracks his heart in two, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s crying as well, the tears of sympathy trickling beneath his spectacles. Pierre turns away, hoping to hide them.

“We won’t speak of it anymore,” he says, and clears his throat to banish the tears. Pierre turns back to her and gives her a hesitant smile. “We won’t speak of it, my dear.” Poor girl. How fell she so ill? With shame? “But one thing I beg of you. Consider me your friend, hmm? And if you ever need help, or simply to open your heart to someone — not now.” Pierre raises his hand, forestalling her protest, “but when your mind is clear. Think of me.”

The offer is out before he can think of all the reasons he shouldn’t make it. Natasha is young, and he is still a married man, no matter where his wife chooses to live. Her reputation has been sullied enough in the last few days. Being seen with him will only make matters worse. Besides, hasn’t she been hurt enough? All Pierre knows of himself is that he’s not the sort of man anyone would choose to spend time with. How can he hope to help at all?

“Don't speak to me like that.” Her voice comes out harsh, and Pierre flinches back, but she keeps going, unaware of the little shock she's given him. “I am not worth it!”

Pierre can’t stop staring. “Stop, stop, stop.” It doesn’t make any sense. Not worth it? When she’s still young, and lovely, and — and ruined. Oh. “You have your whole life before you,” he says, and wishes he could make it more convincing.

“Before me?” Natasha lets out a soft, rueful laugh. “No, all is over for me.”

All over?

Pierre takes a breath and lets go of fear. The words are halting, but true, the truest he’s ever spoken. “If - if I were not myself, but... but the brightest, handsomest, best man on Earth, and if I were free, I... I would get down on my knees this minute and ask you for your hand. And for your love.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he feels the shame of it, but feels at the same time that he’s in safe hands, that whatever else Natasha will do, holding that against him isn’t her way.

Natasha takes a step closer, eyes welling up with tears, and raises a trembling hand. Pierre goes still, unable to move, to pull away, or speak. He knows he should move away from the touch, that her touch will ache more than Dolokhov’s, more than anyone’s ever has. Who else has been hurt so deeply? But he doesn’t move, and when her cool fingers touch his cheek, he braces himself for the pain, for all the anguish and betrayal she’s suffered, and the bitter disappointment. But it doesn’t come. 

He searches her face, eyes widening, and recognizes the tiny, tremulous smile there behind the tears. Natasha pulls her hand away, and it feels as if a weight has been lifted. She leaves the room smiling, and when Pierre walks out and into the dirty streets and sees the comet hanging in the sky, its magnificent tail glittering over the roofs of Moscow, the feeling of tenderness and love in his heart is nothing at all compared to the tender last look she gave him through her tears. Pierre watches as the comet burns across the sky, and feels it lifting his soul up and over the city and into a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I can't believe I actually finished this work. Thanks for sticking around for this ridiculous little pet project of mine! I hope it wasn't disappointing, and that you guys know how much the love and kindness you've shown me means to me.

**Author's Note:**

> No one asked for this, least of all me. That's okay.


End file.
